


Negotiations with the Lion

by raspberrycoffeecake



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 79,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21595573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raspberrycoffeecake/pseuds/raspberrycoffeecake
Summary: In which Tywin Lannister, Duke of Casterly Rock, offers Lady Sansa Stark something she desperately needs - for a price.
Relationships: Tywin Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 194
Kudos: 452





	1. Chapter 1

_London, October 1812_

Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell looked across the crowded ballroom, now lit by flickering candles hanging from the sconces on the walls and sitting in the candelabras on the tables, and felt her spirits rise as she spotted her dear friend, Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden, across the room.

Well, it wasn’t so much spotting Lady Margaery that raised her spirits, as it was spotting the young man who stood beside her: Lord Loras Tyrell, her brother.

At their last tete-a-tete, yesterday afternoon at tea in the Stark townhouse, Margaery had intimated to Sansa that Lord Loras, newly returned home with his regiment, was quite likely to ask her to dance this evening at Lady Tarly’s annual soiree, and Sansa was entirely eager for the opportunity.

This was the start of Sansa’s second season, although this one had begun in a much more subdued, much less optimistic manner than the first. It was one thing to arrive in the capital, the fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked daughter of a duke; it was another to belong to a family in disgrace, relying on handouts from family friends such as the Tyrells and, by extension, their friends, the Tarlys.

Perhaps Lord Loras might be only willing to dance with her out of charity or regard for his sister, but Sansa was willing to accept anything that might bring some variation to these dreadful parties where every time she looked up, she could swear a pack of ladies were tittering about her behind their fans.

He turned, their eyes locked across the ballroom, and she felt her cheeks turn pink. Would he come over, to ask her? Even now, he was turning…

“Lady Sansa.”

Sansa nearly jumped at the deep voice that sounded like it had spoken directly into her ear. She turned, and found herself face to face with the last person she expected to see at a ball.

It was the Duke of Casterly Rock.

Tall - so much so that Sansa, who already towered over many of the men in the room, had to look up to see his face - imposing, and wearing an expression that looked like the opposite of what one would at least pretend to wear to a ball.

Gathering her wits about her as quickly as she could, Sansa dipped into a curtsey, responding, “Your Grace,” in as even a tone as she could manage.

When she rose, she nearly jolted again, because he had extended his hand toward her. It took her a moment to realize that he…actually wanted her to take it. Not wanting to offend the wealthiest and most powerful man in the realm, she placed her gloved hand in his.

“Lady Sansa,” he repeated in that impossibly low voice that she now registered must belong to him, “may I have the next dance?”

It took every ounce of proper manners her mother had ever instilled in her to keep Sansa’s mouth from dropping open in shock. The War Secretary, the famously antisocial Lion Duke, had actually chosen to attend a season event, and was, at present, asking her to dance? Had she already had too much of Lady Tarly’s infamous punch?

No, this seemed real enough. They hadn’t been properly introduced, and Sansa was tempted to tell him so, but she somehow knew he would dismiss her protest - after all, she knew who he was, and he clearly knew who she was as well. So she responded in the only way she knew how. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

She was still in a daze as he led her toward the dancing, her hand on his elbow. The other couples made way for them to join at the top of the lines, despite the fact that they were joining just as the dance was about to begin, and Sansa could already feel how differently people treated the disgraced daughter of the Duke of Winterfell, and the dancing partner of the Duke of Casterly Rock.

He bowed, his eyes never leaving hers; she curtseyed; and the dance began.

They didn’t speak as they danced - an older dance, she noted, one that perhaps he was familiar with from years earlier; he certainly danced competently enough - and all the other couples seemed to give them a wide berth, as if they were just as shocked by the sight of the Lion Duke dancing at a ball as Sansa was.

They would come together in the dance, and then move back apart, weaving among the other dancers, and then back together again. His eyes were constantly on her, as if he really were the lion of his namesake and he really did want to devour her.

Finally, the dance ended. He bowed again, she curtseyed again, and he disappeared back into the crowd, leaving her to wonder if she really had dreamed the whole thing. She looked around, desperately needing Margaery’s counsel, but both of the Tyrell siblings seemed to have disappeared.

With no allies readily available, Sansa needed to sit down and clear her head. She pushed her way through the crowd and made her way into one of Lady Tarly’s drawing rooms, off the main corridor, which was thankfully empty. Shutting the door behind her, Sansa collapsed in a decidedly unladylike manner in one of the large armchairs.

She had a blessed few minutes of silence before the door opened, and the object of her perplexed speculation walked in, as if he were haunting her steps.

Sansa immediately rose and bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, I didn’t realize you were… I’ll just…” The words dried up in her mouth, and she moved toward the door, uncaring that she was being obviously rude to one of the most powerful peers of the realm. She didn’t know what he wanted, but she knew she didn’t want to be alone with him.

No such luck. He leaned against the door, shutting it behind him and effectively blocking her exit.

Sansa’s eyes rose to his, and she quickly cycled through a series of emotions - confusion, anger, fear - before settling on a blandly patient expression. “Your Grace?” she asked, keeping her countenance as empty and devoid of emotion as possible.

“Have a seat, Lady Sansa,” the Duke replied quietly, in a tone that sounded as if he couldn’t even fathom the thought of being disobeyed. She retreated and sank back into the chair she had been occupying, as he took his own seat across from her.

“Your Grace, my mother-“ The part of Sansa that still had sense continued to grasp at the idea that she needed a chaperone, shouldn’t be found alone with this man, of all people.

“-will not be necessary. I will not take up more than a moment of your time.”

Resigned, Sansa nodded.

“As you may have heard, Lady Sansa,” the Duke began, “I am not a man disposed to mince words. So I will lay out the situation for you plainly. I may be in possession of information that could exonerate your father.”

Sansa felt her hand fly to her mouth before she could stop herself. Her father, the Duke of Winterfell, had been imprisoned at Newgate for the last six months on charges of treason and espionage. And the Duke of Casterly Rock was offering the chance to free him?

Then her mind caught up with her racing heart. Why had the Duke cornered her at a ball in a dark sitting room to share this information? Her brother, Robb, had been acting as the head of the family in their father’s stead, and he was almost always to be found sitting in the Duke’s office in the family’s townhouse, poring over records he hoped might prove their father’s innocence. The Lion Duke could have called on Robb at any point in the last six months and likely would have found him at home.

Nothing about this situation made sense. She needed more information. Putting on her most polite and innocent expression, she remarked, “If you were to share this with my brother, Your Grace, my family would be forever in your debt.”

The old Duke’s lip curled up, and Sansa hoped it wasn’t his attempt at a smile. It was horrifying. “Not your family, Lady Sansa. You.”

Lord, give her strength. What was this man playing at? “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning, Your Grace.”

He hadn’t moved closer to her, but Sansa suddenly felt as if he had invaded her space. “Come, Lady Sansa. We both know you’re not as dim as you pretend to be. As I’m sure you know, I am, at present, rather lacking in heirs to the dukedom.”

This, she had heard about through the never-ending rumor mill that fueled the _ton_. After his firstborn, Lord Jaime, had been killed in battle on the continent last year, the Duke had apparently disowned his second son, Lord Tyrion, due to his connection to a gambling hell which might, depending on who was telling the tale, also serve as a brothel. And at that point, the Lannister family was running decidedly low on sons.

He continued, “I have information that is likely to be of use to your family, and you provide a potential solution to my own problem.”

Sansa tried not to stare at the Duke. Was he actually…proposing marriage by calling her a “solution to his problem”? Did this man honestly think that being a duke gave him the right to treat her like she was already his property?

Her shock must not have shown on her face, or else the Duke ignored it, because he continued, “I don’t expect an answer from you now, but I will pay a visit to Lord Robb in the next few days to ask his leave to court you, and you should be aware of what’s at stake before you respond.”

Sansa stared at him, thankful he hadn’t asked for a response, because she had no idea what she might say. She somehow found it in her to reply, “Thank you for informing me, Your Grace,” with only a modicum of bitterness in her tone.

Either not noticing or not caring, the old Duke took her gloved hand, pressed his lips to it, and then disappeared from the room as suddenly as he had entered.

After that, Sansa found she had no enthusiasm for returning to the ball.

Somehow, thankfully, it was only a moment after she emerged from the drawing room that her mother appeared - the Duchess’ ability to tell when her children were in trouble must truly be magic, Sansa mused - and Sansa only had to say that she no longer felt like dancing, before the carriage had been summoned and they were on their way home.

The moment they arrived home, however, the Duchess ushered Sansa into the library and shut the door behind them.

“Will you tell me what the Duke of Casterly Rock wanted in his private audience with you, or should I summon Robb first, so you don’t need to repeat yourself?” Sansa's mother asked, her tone somehow perfectly balanced between commanding and tender, making it clear that she would be obeyed, but also that sympathy would be provided as needed.

There would be no sense in repeating herself, as her mother had pointed out. “Get Robb. He’ll hear it soon enough, and he might as well hear it from me.”

Robb arrived shortly thereafter, his face creased with worry, and Sansa recounted her conversation with the Lion Duke. For a long while after, the three of them - the adults of the family at present, although two of them were just barely that - sat in silence.

Sansa finally broke it; she knew she was the one who had to. “We have to accept, of course.”

Robb looked at her carefully. “Do we, Sansa? I still believe there must be something in the books. We have months before his trial. Why give yourself over to this old Duke if you don’t need to?”

Sansa's mother shook her head. “It’s not going to be enough, Robb. It was never going to be enough. Powerful people locked him up, and they’re not going to surrender in the face of a few numbers from an old ledger. If the Duke has what he says he has…” She turned to Sansa, questioning. She was not going to force her daughter into an unhappy marriage to save her husband; but she would ask.

Sansa sighed. “Accept his suit, Robb. Allow him to court me, and we’ll consider the offer when it comes.”

***

The church near the Stark family’s townhouse wasn’t as familiar and comfortable as the village church back at Winterfell, but it was quiet in the afternoon, and no one bothered her, which had made it an ideal retreat in the months since Sansa’s father had been arrested. Now it provided space for her racing thoughts, as she wondered what might be transpiring at the townhouse even now. Had the old Duke returned to ask Robb if he could court her, as he had promised he would? …Was she displeased by the prospect?

She felt, rather than saw or heard, someone else settle into the pew behind her. Why sit right beside her, in an otherwise empty church? But she got her answer quickly enough when she heard a throat clear and a high, familiar voice say into her ear, “It’s good information. I should know, since I was the one who obtained it.”

Sansa sighed. Lord Varys had been a steady presence in the Stark family’s lives since their father had been arrested, providing tidbits whenever he could, and while the knowledge that he had helped the Lion Duke put them in their current position was not at all surprising, it was still an unpleasant truth to face.

“Tell me, Lord Varys. Have you been passing on information about us to the Duke of Casterly Rock this entire time?”

She turned to see Lord Varys grimace. “Lady Sansa, you know that my loyalty is, first and foremost, to the war effort. Your father’s imprisonment at a critical time is, in my opinion, detrimental to our chances of defeating the French, which is why I’ve tried to help Lord Robb whenever I can. I work for the War Office, which means that, by definition, the Duke has the right to all of the information I gather. But I have passed on nothing I didn’t think would help your family.”

Sansa had already guessed all of this, but she still felt her heart sink on hearing the words. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could just…give me the information and spare me having to marry him?”

He shook his head, his expression pitying. “Unfortunately, your father has made some powerful enemies. The information is useless on its own, unless you have other powerful people backing you up.”

“But who are they?” She met his eyes, trying to convey her desperation, hoping he might finally tell her what he had previously refused to. “Who hates us so much that they want to see Father hanged? It doesn’t make any sense.”

He looked away. “You know I can’t tell you that, Lady Sansa. Not right now, at least.”

She leaned back in the pew, defeated. “Have you told Robb?”

“I spoke with him a few moments ago. I believe the Duke will be coming by this afternoon, and as far as I know, your brother plans to accept Tywin Lannister’s suit.”

She had told him to, and yet she couldn’t help the twinge of betrayal she felt. She was the one making this sacrifice for the sake of her family, and yet the decision was entirely out of her hands. The men were the ones who would negotiate the decisions that would affect her for the rest of her life, while she sat by and watched.

“Just…tell me something, Lord Varys.” She couldn’t meet his eyes while she spoke, but she knew him well enough to know that he would understand. “Will he be a good husband? Or will I be sacrificing my own happiness for the sake of something that might not even work?”

Lord Varys chuckled. “He’ll certainly provide for all your material needs. And you’re familiar with his reputation: once you’re part of his family, he’ll protect you unconditionally, unwaveringly, until his last breath. He’ll protect your family, too, once they become his. That’s certainly something.”

She looked up to see his expression shift, to one of something that almost looked like regret. “But if you’re asking whether he’ll be an attentive and affectionate suitor, then I believe you can answer that as well as I can.” He paused, then continued, more emotion in his voice. “Don’t expect him to love you, Sansa. He’ll do his duty by you, and I have reason to believe he’ll treat you gently, but it seems clear that whatever capacity for love he once had in him died with his first wife.”

Sansa sighed. Some part of her had known the moment the Duke had presented his hand to her at the ball, but this confirmed it. Her childhood dreams of falling in love with a handsome stranger across a crowded ballroom and living happily ever after were just that - dreams. “At least I won’t be the only woman of the _ton_ stuck in a loveless marriage. And perhaps I’m in a better position than most.”

She looked at him again, and knew Lord Varys had nothing more to offer. So with a polite, “Good day, Lord Varys,” she rose and walked back down the aisle, her slippers making a soft patter on the polished wood floor as she retreated to the haven that was still hers, at least for the time being

By the time Sansa arrived home, Lady Margaery had already called - and left a rather ominous note reporting that the Dowager Duchess of Highgarden insisted on speaking to Lady Sansa at once. Sansa smiled - Margaery’s grandmother was well known for her demanding personality - and prepared to set off again.

The Tyrells’ townhouse wasn’t far from the Starks’, so Sansa decided to walk. Fall had already ushered away the the foul heat and stench that usually characterized summer in London, but it was still warm enough to travel without a cloak. The pleasant weather was almost enough to make Sansa forget they had ever come to the city.Almost enough to allow her to imagine their family was still whole, and her life still stretched out before her, thick with promise.

She wondered what it was like at Winterfell now. Had the leaves already turned and fallen, with snow threatening on the horizon, far in the north as it was? If she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was walking across the lawn down to the woods where she and her siblings had spent much of their childhood, leaves crunching underfoot.

But everything about Winterfell now was no more than a dream. Once she was married, she would have no reason to return there, except as a guest. And who knew whether the Duke of Casterly Rock would allow even that?

Sansa’s musings were interrupted when she arrived at the Tyrell townhouse, because the moment Margaery ushered her into the sitting room, Sansa found herself facing an interrogation administered by the Dowager Duchess herself. She hadn’t even had time to accept the cup of tea Margaery had poured for her before Lady Olenna asked, “What does the Duke of Casterly Rock want with you?”

Sansa took a sip of her tea, to give her time to compose herself before she replied. She enjoyed spending time with Margaery, and she had appreciated the Tyrells’ support after Father’s arrest, but Lady Olenna could sometimes be too much.

It had occurred to Sansa on the walk over that the Tyrells would quite likely question her about the ball, and her dance with the Duke. After some thought, she decided there was no sense in being anything but honest.The Tyrells had proven themselves nothing but trustworthy so far, and the truth would come out soon enough, besides.

“He says he has information that could set my father free. And he’s willing to hand it over, provided I marry him.”

Margaery raised an eyebrow, a gesture Sansa knew meant she was taking in the information and considering it from all angles before she reacted.

Lady Olenna’s reaction, on the other hand, was immediate. “What does that Old Lion want with a young thing like you? Can’t he find his own bride without resorting to extortion?”

“Grandmother,” Margaery began calmly, “I don’t know that the Duke’s motivations are really the issue at the moment.” Margaery turned to Sansa, and asked, more softly, “What do you want, dearest? Do you plan to accept?”

Sansa looked away, struggling to keep the tears from her eyes. It was only yesterday, after all, that she had hoped she and Margaery might someday be sisters. “I don’t know that I have a choice. If I have the chance to save Father, and I don’t take it, what kind of daughter does that make me?”

“A smart one,” Lady Olenna replied tartly. “Your father got himself into this mess, and he should bloody well get himself out of it.”

“Grandmother!” Margaery exclaimed in mock indignation. They always did this, the two of them: banter together, build off of one another until they got what they wanted out of their visitors. It was fascinating to watch, as long as you weren’t its target.

Sansa sensed that Margaeryunderstood Sansa’s choice, understood that although she was not happy about it, she would put duty to family first; and although Lady Olenna complained loudly about the Duke’s lack of propriety, she sensed that the Dowager Duchess would support in this, as well. When the visit ended and it was time for Sansa to return home to prepare for dinner, she felt strengthened, glad she had confided in the two Tyrell women, despite their brashness and scheming.

She emerged into the late afternoon sunshine, and paused at the foot of the front stairs to collect herself before she turned toward home.

A hand gripped her upper arm almost painfully. “What in God’s name are you doing?” a familiar voice hissed, tight with what almost sounded like rage.

“Your Grace?” Sansa turned to face the Lion Duke, confused.Why was he here, and why had he grabbed her forcefully in the middle of the street?

“Answer me, girl.” His grip tightened.

Sansa inhaled, trying to tamp down on her indignation so she could have a reasonably calm conversation with a man she was quickly starting to believe must be mad. “I was invited for tea with the Dowager Duchess and Lady Margaery, and I walked. I am now in the process of walking myself home again.”

“Stupid girl! Have you no regard for your own safety, wandering around the city on your own?”His tone was calmer, less aggressive, but it still held what felt like yards of tightly coiled tension, ready to spring on her if she crossed him again.

At his insult, Sansa lost her temper, just a little bit. She pulled away from him and faced him squarely. “I’m not a child, Your Grace. I’m a grown woman, and I’m perfectly capable of getting myself successfully from one place to another.”

She watched his jaw work, as he seemed to be debating how to respond, before he finally shook his head and offered his arm. “Lady Sansa, allow me to escort you home.”

She doubted that he would leave her alone if she refused him, so she took his arm, and they set off.

After several minutes of silence, he finally ground out, “I hope, in the future, that you will have a bit more care for the safety of your person. My future Duchess cannot be endangering herself without reason.”

Sansa knew she should avoid getting drawn in again, but she also just couldn’t allow him to have the final word. “Your Grace, I can’t say that I’m your future anything. You haven’t formally asked for my hand, and neither my brother nor I has agreed.”

“Don’t be foolish. We both know you will agree, when I do make my suit.”

At that, she felt herself deflate again; felt the fight go out of her.Because what he said was true, and she couldn’t contest it, as much as she might wish to.

Then something else occurred to her. She looked up at him, and asked, “Your Grace, I admit that you have the advantage over my family, but why have you chosen me? Surely if all you’re interested in is an heir, you could find enough mamas in the ton so desperate to make their daughters into duchesses that your being an older widower wouldn’t stop them. So why pursue me?”

He laughed then - short, hard, but unmistakably a laugh. “Lady Sansa, didn’t your mother, consummate lady that she is, teach you not to insult a man who’s paying you court?”

She blushed and looked down, watching as her legs strove to keep pace with his longer strides.

“But in answer to your question: it’s a useful alliance, between West and North. You have resources we need, and our investment in extracting those resources will go a long way toward developing the region.”

One word stood out to her among the others he had used. “Alliance? With whom are we at war?”

He raised an eyebrow, and there was a great deal in that gesture that she didn’t yet understand. “France, of course.”

Yes. Of course. The war with France clearly explained why the Lion Duke was involving himself in internal politics, and why her father was currently sitting in prison on charges of treason.

He hadn’t finished talking. “Besides, if I am forced by circumstance to take another wife, why should I not have the most beautiful woman in the _ton_?”

He wasn’t looking at her, but his words carried the same weight as if he had been leering. She shuddered, and he pressed his other hand on top of hers…as comfort? Or as a sign of his ownership over her?

She couldn’t help it; she had to keep pushing back against him. Something about his smug tone made it impossible for her to allow him this easy win. “Lady Margaery is generally thought to be far lovelier than I.”

“False modesty does not become you, Lady Sansa. Lady Margaery is undeniably lovely, but you have certain qualities that she lacks. And furthermore, I would be hard-pressed to find any leverage that would convince Lady Olenna to surrender her prized jewel to an old man, as you so aptly described me.”

“My mother and brother, on the other hand, are too desperate to refuse.”

“Precisely.”

“Tell me, Your Grace,” Sansa asked, feeling her usual composure slide out from beneath her as she did, “did you command Lord Varys to find intelligence on my father’s case solely for the purpose of pushing me into this alliance, or did you have some other goal in mind?”

Again, he ignored her biting tone, and she was forced to acknowledge that he was doing it intentionally, to show he was unaffected by anything she said or did. “I have several purposes in mind for the information Varys found, only one of them being to secure your hand.”

She studied him then, as they continued toward her home: this man who had decided she would be his chosen bride, and would do what it took to secure her agreement. His face was hard and set, with lines betraying his years of military service before he retired from the field to his current position as War Secretary. His strides were still purposeful, and he didn't flinch, even as he must feel her eyes on him.

He was not kind or romantic or gentle, the way she had always imagined her husband would be; but did that make him a poor choice? He was much older than her, certainly, but there were plenty of marriages with great differences in age between bride and groom. He infuriated her, with his high-handedness and the impossibility of getting a straight answer out of him, but perhaps that would fade with time; and besides, plenty of noble couples spent relatively little time together. Lord Varys was right: he would certainly take care of her. There were worse fates than having a cold, distant man for a husband.

His eyes met hers then, and she knew, as clearly as if he had said it aloud, that he would never let her go; whether she agreed now, or was forced to her knees later, she would be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I've attempted to make this as historically accurate as possible (and hit basically every Regency romance trope there is), I'm sure there are some mistakes.
> 
> Sansa has just had begun her second London season when this starts, making her 18 or 19 years old (aka not a creepy child bride).


	2. Chapter 2

The Duke of Casterly Rock became a frequent visitor to the Stark townhouse; not every day, of course, since his duties at the War Office and in the House of Lords were still pressing, but a few times per week he would call on Lady Sansa and her mother, the Duchess, and they would sit in the drawing room for a little while; or he and Lady Sansa would take a turn in the streets surrounding the townhouse. Infrequently, he would stay for dinner; but those visits were uncommon, because he claimed he was usually too busy for anything but a meal brought to his desk as he worked. And given that Napoleon was still marching his way across continental Europe, and new hostilities had just broken out in North America, no one argued with him. He visited just enough for appearances’ sake, so that the eventual announcement of his engagement to Lady Sansa would produce no rumors of scandal - and no more than that.

Sansa had found that the old Duke was terrible at small talk. She and her mother would have to make up the bulk of the conversation themselves, occasionally drawing him in with innocuous questions. (They had learned early on that he wouldn’t answer any questions about his work, aside from remarking on how busy he was; he claimed that military matters were no subject for ladies to discuss.) At first, Sansa and her mother had forced Lady Arya to sit with them, but she would somehow manage to get her dress hopelessly dirty, no matter how close to the time of the appointment they dressed her, and she would grumble the entire time, not caring about making polite conversation, so they had quickly given up on that.

Every once in a while, they would find a topic the Duke was willing to discuss - usually related to history or classics - and Sansa usually found herself fascinated, despite herself. She had studied alongside Robb, and although she hadn’t been forced to learn as much as he had, she had absorbed a great deal, and it was clear that the Duke’s knowledge was deep.

But those brief moments of connection weren’t enough to make her truly warm to him. Marrying him was still a duty, and nothing more.

A few weeks into their courtship, the Lion Duke requested that Lady Sansa and her mother join him in attending a soiree organized by his daughter, the Duchess of Storm’s End and King’s Landing, her first of the season.

When Sansa descended the stairs to find the Duke waiting for her in the foyer, his dress blacks crisp and immaculate, she found herself smoothing out the silk on her gown, suddenly quite aware that it was one she had made herself. She knew she was a talented seamstress, and she had never doubted herself before; but something about the Duke’s appearance made her feel suddenly inadequate.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and took his hand, feeling the warmth of it even through his thick leather glove and her thin lace one. He kissed the back of her hand, then pulled her in to his side so she could take his arm. “You look lovely this evening, Lady Sansa,” he remarked quietly in her ear, and somehow, oddly, that soothed her nerves. He offered his other arm to her mother, and they were off and down the steps, entering his ducal carriage, which was waiting for them on the street. The Stark family carriage couldn’t be much smaller, and yet his, with his lion seal emblazoned on the side, seemed to project more raw power.

He handed her mother into the carriage first, and then shifted Sansa's hand so it rested in his once more. Their eyes met, and for a moment longer than necessary he held her hand and she stood frozen, unable to climb into the carriage. Then he moved, and she broke free of his gaze, using his hand to steady herself as she ascended the steps and took her seat beside her mother’s. He climbed in, shut the door, and rapped on the roof - and they were off.

The Starks had never attended an event at the Baratheons’ London residence - they tended to move in different social circles - but when the carriage stopped and the Lion Duke handed Sansa and her mother down from it, she found her eyes growing wide at the ostentatious facade. If this was what the outside looked like, what would they find inside?

Speaking low into her ear, the Duke murmured, “My daughter has never learned the value of restraint. Have you met her, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa turned so she could speak to the Duke above the din from all the carriages pulling up and discharging their passengers in the drive. “I haven’t yet had the pleasure, Your Grace.”

The Duke made a noise that almost sounded like a snort, and Sansa was fascinated: did the old Duke actually have a sense of humor? “I’m not sure I would describe it as a pleasure. But you’ll be able to decide for yourself soon enough.”

The Duchess of Winterfell raised an eyebrow at Sansa, apparently curious to know what they had been discussing, but Sansa merely smiled and faced forward. Her mother would learn of everything that transpired soon enough.

The Lion Duke led the two Stark women through the main doors and into the entryway, where a footman ushered them past lesser nobility to be announced. Sansa heard the words, “The Duke of Casterly Rock, with the Duchess of Winterfell and Lady Sansa Stark,” before they were moving down a grand staircase - grander even than those at Almack’s - and into the party.

The ballroom was massive, and every surface was covered in decorations.There were sculptures in every alcove; gilding on every panel; and paintings on the ceiling.It was as if someone had decided to recreate a scene from a fairy tale, with no concern whatsoever for the expense.

Almost as soon as they reached the bottom of the staircase, they were accosted by a blond woman Sansa had seen from afar at past events and recognized as the Duke’s daughter.

“Father,” she exclaimed, as she examined his companions, “how lovely! I didn’t expect you to join us.”

“Cersei,” he responded, raising his eyebrow, and Sansa surmised there must be a great deal being communicated between father and daughter that wasn’t being said aloud, “I believe you have not yet been introduced. The Duchess of Winterfell, and her daughter, Lady Sansa Stark. My daughter, the Duchess of Storm’s End and King’s Landing.”

All three women curtseyed politely. What must the Lion Duke’s daughter make of him actually attending her soiree - Sansa could imagine that many such invitations had been issued over the years, and the Duke had likely ignored all of them - with the daughter of a disgraced duke on his arm? Sansa could almost see Cersei’s mind spinning, trying to figure out what her father was plotting.

But he seemed uninterested in providing fodder for his daughter’s gossip mill. He turned to Sansa, remarked, “Please grant me the honor of your first dance, Lady Sansa,” and when she assented, he led her onto the dance floor, leaving his daughter nearly gaping behind them.

As before, the Duke’s eyes never left her throughout the dance, and Sansa felt the uncomfortable sensation of being closely examined without fully understanding why. He was an impeccable dancer, and Sansa wondered whether he simply remembered all the steps from training in his boyhood, or if he had practiced more recently. Somehow, the thought that he had prepared to woo her by brushing up on his dancing both thrilled and frightened her.

Whenever they met in the dance, the feeling of his firm, gloved hand in her smaller one made her involuntarily wonder what it might be like to have those hands on other parts of her: her waist, perhaps, or around her shoulders, or perhaps even resting on her chin and the back of her neck, pulling her in for... No. She could not, would not think things like that.Those were utterly improper thoughts for a young lady to have, even about the man who was quite likely to become her husband.And besides, she wasn’t actually drawn to him…was she?

When the dance ended, he led her to the side of the ballroom and suggested he might get her a glass of punch. She nodded, thanking him for the offer - the heat of the midsummer evening, the crush of people in the ballroom, the confusion of dancing with this perplexing man were all making her light-headed. He disappeared into the crowd.

“Lady Sansa,” a strange voice said behind her, “would you give me the honor of your next dance?”

She turned to face a man she immediately recognized as Lord Baelish, one of the most powerful men on the King’s Council. “My lord,” she started, trying to figure out a way to politely fend off a man she was certain the Duke would not be amused to find near her, “we have not been introduced.”

He smirked. “Then let me rectify that. I am Lord Petyr Baelish of Harrenhal and Chancellor of the Exchequer. And you, lovely creature, can be none other than Lady Sansa Stark, daughter of the Duchess of Winterfell, a woman I greatly admire.” His presumptuous words and tone sounded almost predatory to Sansa, and she found herself wanting nothing more than to get as far away from this man as possible.

But instead he moved closer to her, effectively pinning her against the wall, and said directly into her ear, “I know that you have an offer forthcoming, and I’d like to present my own alternative, if I may. I can’t make you a Duchess, but I’m also not an old man lusting after a young woman. Marry me, and I can provide you with what he can’t.”

Sansa stared at him, unable to come up with any sort of reply. Why did men seem to think it was appropriate to assault her with offers of marriage? Was she a lady, or a sack of flour, to be traded at will?

She wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but seeing the Duke of Casterly Rock’s tall form stalk toward them, punch glass in his hand and murder in his eyes, was suddenly an enormous relief.

“Lady Sansa, was this man bothering you?”

The Lion Duke must know Lord Baelish - they were both on the King’s Council, after all - and his refusal to refer to him by name was beyond insulting.

“Your Grace. What a surprise.” Lord Baelish’s face betrayed absolutely no surprise. “I was simply telling Lady Sansa how much I admire her mother.”

The Duke raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I’m sure you were. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’ve matters to discuss with my fiancee.”

Sansa could see Lord Baelish’s mind working quickly - presumably trying to determine whether it was worth trying to push back against the Lion Duke. He apparently decided it wasn’t, because after a moment, he bowed, offered, “My congratulations to you both,” and departed.

The Duke handed Sansa the glass of punch he was holding, and she took a long sip, trying not to fall back against the wall. This was too much: the ballroom crowded with the heat and stench of too many ripe bodies; the tension of trying to navigate among political currents she barely understood, without knowing whom she could trust; the frustration of being bounced back and forth between men like a shuttlecock.

She swayed, and the Duke seemed to understand that she needed support, because the next moment, he had slid an arm around her waist in a manner that most members of the _ton_ would consider much too familiar for a couple that hadn’t even been formally betrothed yet. Nonetheless, she greatly appreciated it, here in this secluded corner of the ballroom where others were unlikely to stumble across them. She leaned into his touch, and he steadied her.

His touch was gentle, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was not. “What did Littlefinger want?”

She was too drained for this. She wanted nothing more than to leave this unfriendly place and return to a quiet evening at home. “I’m sure I couldn’t possibly say what Lord Baelish is after.”

His grip on her tightened, and his voice lowered, to sound almost menacing. “Don’t play coy with me, girl. I’ve already had a trying day, and I’m only moments away from ordering his head brought to me at the War Office.”

She looked at him then, suddenly furious at how the men in her life seemed to be constantly trying to draw her into their foolish games - games she wanted no part of. “What do you want me to tell you, Your Grace?” she spat, her voice filled with as much venom as she could muster. “That he cornered me and told me I should marry him instead? That I’m tired of being treated as a pawn in whatever childish game you’re playing?”

He growled - that was the only way Sansa could think the describe the sound he made in his throat in response to her words. “I wish, for your sake, Lady Sansa, that our political maneuvering were simply a game. But it’s a great deal more significant than that, and whether or not you wish it, you’ve already been drawn into it. As things stand, I believe I can objectively tell you that you’ll have a much better chance casting your lots with me, than you would with Lord Baelish. Ultimately, of course, it’s your choice.”

Sansa’s temper was still burning. “I’m not a ninny, Your Grace. I know who holds the power, and who is most likely to be able to help my family. But that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

His hand began to stroke her waist through her gown - a gesture that was so unseemly, she wondered if he was even aware he was making it - and yet, it had been so long since she’d felt a comforting touch, outside of her mother’s, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him to stop.

“No. I wouldn’t expect you to be. I do, however, expect you to put up an appropriately pleasant appearance, when necessary.”

“Which I have done, Your Grace, and will continue to do. I intend to do my duty, as you intend to do yours.”

His other hand moved to her cheek, and for a moment, Sansa thought the old Duke was going to kiss her - something she had occasionally seen her parents do, but would be wildly inappropriate for an unmarried couple, especially at a public event. But something in his eyes suggested to her that he was losing a modicum of his usual control when it came to her. She found her eyes sliding closed, her chin tipping up-

And then, suddenly, his touch was gone, the appropriate amount of distance restored between them…and Sansa absolutely _was not_ missing his hand on her waist. That would be impossible.

She turned to find a smirking boy approaching them, with none other than Lady Margaery on his arm. Margaery raised an eyebrow at Sansa, communicating all she needed to in that gesture, then returned her attention to the boy who was parading her around the ballroom like a prized pony.

“Grandfather!” he declared, his voice high and unpleasant, “Mother said you had arrived with Lady Sansa on your arm, but I couldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes! What’s an old man like you doing with a pretty young woman like her?”

Sansa cringed at the boy’s insults directed at a man who, albeit a relative, was still powerful enough to crush him. Cersei Baratheon was clearly no fool, but it seemed that at least one of her children was.

“My lord,” Margaery cut in softly, trying to steer her companion away from Sansa and the Lion Duke, “I’m feeling parched. Could I trouble you to bring me a glass of punch?”

“In a moment, Marg,” the boy said, his over-familiarity clearly intended to be insulting. “I’d like to speak with my grandfather first.”

The Dukestared the boy down for a long moment, thenturned to Sansa. “Have the two of you been introduced?”

“No, Your Grace,” she replied politely, hoping a display of nothing but perfectly proper behavior might disarm the boy.

“My lady, this is my grandson, Lord Joffrey Baratheon of Storm’s End and King’s Landing. Joffrey, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

“I know who you are,” Lord Joffrey replied with a snicker. “You’re the young thing my grandfather’s trying to woo. Everyone’s gossiping about it: the Old Lion and the Young Wolf. It’s ridiculous, if you ask me, that an old man should be chasing after such a young piece of tail.”

“That’s enough,” the Duke growled, his voice low and threatening. “If you have nothing to contribute except insults and foul language, then your mother should send you to bed. Lady Margaery, please allow me to escort you to the refreshments table.”

He held out his other arm to Margaery, as if it were an offer, although everyone present clearly understood it to be a command. Margaery took the offered arm, and her calm expression didn’t waver. Lord Joffrey stood there for a moment, as if confused, before storming off in the opposite direction.

The Duke didn’t speak as he led both women to the refreshments table, where Margaery dropped his arm. “Lady Margaery,” he said softly, “please inform me if my grandson acts improperly toward you again. His mother has clearly been too lax in raising him as a proper gentleman.”

Margaery dipped her head, then replied, “Your Grace, I thank you for your concern, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you not intervene. Lord Joffrey is one of the possible suitors my grandmother has found for me, and I’d like to determine his temperament for myself.” Then, she accepted a glass of punch from one of the footmen, and disappeared into the crowd.

Suddenly, Sansa felt herself incredibly lucky in her choice of husbands, if men like Lord Baelish and Lord Joffrey were the other possibilities. The Lion Duke might be gruff and unpleasant, but he had already shown twice this evening that he would defend her, and her honor, whenever necessary.

And then something rather shocking occurred. A smile appeared on the Duke’s face. Not that awful, self-satisfied thing Sansa thought she had seen the first time they spoke; but a real, genuine, glowing smile. It actually made his features look almost handsome.

Sansa turned to see what had caused the change in her suitor’s countenance, to find a golden-haired girl, a few years younger than Sansa, running up to the Duke, followed closely by a girl wearing a strange face veil.

“Grandfather!” she chirped, her hands immediately going around his waist as she embraced him. Sansa was tempted to laugh at how utterly improper this entire affair was - except the Duke hadn’t shoved her away; he hadn’t refused her hug; he had put his arms around her, too, and kissed the top of her head.

“Myrcella darling,” he replied as she finally moved away, “you’re not supposed to be at this party. Your mother is waiting at least another season before she allows you out. She’ll be furious when she finds you here.” His words were strict, but his tone was light, as if he didn’t actually care what the Duchess might think.

“I know, I know, and Shireen and I will go back upstairs right away, we just heard you were here and I haven’t seen you in so long, and you never come to balls, and I just wanted to see you!” The words tumbled out of her mouth as if she couldn’t stop herself, and Sansa, too, found herself smiling at the sight of this sweet, exuberant girl.

Then her eyes fell on the girl’s companion. The veil hid most of her face from sight, but when the light hit it just right, Sansa could see scars tracing all over her face. She must be highborn - otherwise she wouldn’t be allowed to play with the Duchess’s daughter - but something horrible must have happened to her, that she was forced to wear this veil. Sansa immediately felt pity for the girl.

The Duke turned to her, a playful glint in his eyes. “While you’re down here causing trouble, I suppose I should introduce you. Lady Sansa, my granddaughter, Lady Myrcella Baratheon of Storm’s End and King’s Landing, and her cousin, Lady Shireen Baratheon of Dragonstone. Girls, this is Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, soon to be my betrothed.”

Myrcella’s eyes widened. “Grandfather! You’re getting married? But…you’re so old!”

He laughed, and Sansa was amazed at how pleasant it sounded. “Your mother needs to teach you better manners, my darling.”

“My mother has no manners either, Grandfather, and I think you’re the one we should blame for that!” To Sansa’s surprise, they both laughed at that.

Then, the Duke gave her a playful shove toward a corridor Sansa assumed must lead to wherever the two girls were supposed to stay during the party. “Now get yourselves back upstairs, before your mother discovers you’ve gone!”

When he turned back to Sansa, she was studying him carefully. Where had that carefully crafted exterior gone? Who was this man, who laughed with his granddaughter?

A ghost of the smile he had just been wearing remained on his face as he explained, “My granddaughter can be a bit much, at times.”

“I found her charming, actually.” Compared to the rest of her family - that was implied, although neither of them said it.

“Good, because I do hope the two of you will be friends. She needs someone to spend time with, aside from her mother.”

Sansa smiled softly then, her expression matching his. That would be a lovely aftereffect of this otherwise unpleasant marriage: the two Baratheon girls would be pleasant companions. Then her face fell. “What happened to her cousin - Lord Stannis’ daughter, I assume?”

The Duke grimaced. “Smallpox. When she was very young. She survived, but her face...”. He trailed off, and Sansa knew they must both be thinking the same thing: a young woman with facial scars - even a highborn one such as Lady Shireen - would find it almost impossible to make a good marriage. It was an awful truth, and one the girl herself was probably already aware of.

Then again, at least the girl had survived. Around the time of Sansa’s birth, an entire family - parents, young children - had been taken by smallpox. That was why the Baratheons held two titles: because the Targaryens of King’s Landing and Dragonstone had all perished in a single month, leaving no one else to take the titles, aside from their distant cousins.

He finally broke the silence. “I believe we’re responsible for one more dance, for appearances’ sake. Shall we?”

She took his hand, and they rejoined the couples on the dance floor.

***

Arya Stark stared into the fire in the library grate, watching as it slowly consumed one log after another, each one sending up sparks as it collapsed. Her father’s ward and her best friend, Jon Snow, sat beside her in silence, lost in his own thoughts. After years of planning to join the Army when he was old enough, it was finally happening - Robb had purchased Jon a commission and he was riding out to his posting in just a few days. She knew he was apprehensive about the future, but at least he would be off doing something meaningful; all she had to look forward to was what Mother and Sansa were doing at that very moment: attending balls and making a “smart match.” The very idea made her want to retch.

“I can’t believe Sansa’s agreed to marry that awful Duke,” Arya finally said, breaking the silence. “He’s old and mean and boring.”

Jon laughed. “Just because you think those things, doesn’t mean your sister does. The Duke is a war hero - perhaps she views that with more respect than you seem to.”

“I have plenty of respect for war heroes. I just have none for him.”

No one ever told Arya anything - they always said she was “still too young” - but she wasn’t stupid. She knew why Sansa was marrying the Duke. He had promised to help free Father. But people had been promising that for months, and no one had ever succeeded. Why did they think that the old Duke would suddenly provide some solution no one else had?

And she knew that would be her fate, too, eventually, if she stayed. She would be traded off to some gentleman like a prized mare - someone who would try to teach her manners and make her do things she hated. Someone who would say that war wasn’t a subject for ladies to discuss.

No. She knew what she had to do. She would just need to convince Jon to help her do it.


	3. Chapter 3

A few mornings after the ball at the Baratheon residence, the Duke of Casterly Rock arrived at the Stark townhouse on horseback, a lovely bay mare following docilely behind his own retired warhorse, a majestic white stallion. Everyone had agreed that it was time for the Duke and Sansa to be seen courting in public places frequented by members of the _ton_ , so he had asked her to join him for a ride around Hyde Park at the Fashionable Hour.

She had expected to take one of the Stark family’s mounts, but when she descended the front steps and caught sight of the mare he had brought with him, she immediately knew he was making as much of a statement with the horses they would be riding as he was with the scenario itself. Anyone would know the Duke of Casterly Rock must have been the one to have gifted Lady Sansa with such a beautiful piece of horseflesh, and an official engagement was likely to follow shortly.

He had dismounted, and was standing beside his stallion. “An early wedding gift, Lady Sansa,” he remarked casually, as if giving absurdly expensive gifts were an everyday occurrence for him.

She ran a hand down the horse’s flank, admiring her smooth muscles and sturdy build, trying to reconcile the stern man she was familiar with, with someone who would give such an incredible gift, so perfectly suited to her. “She’s beautiful, Your Grace. Thank you.”

“What will you name her?” His expression almost made it look as though he were interested in her response.

She thought for a moment, and then it came to her. “Lady,” she responded, stroking the horse’s soft hide. He nodded in approval.

She took his offered hand and mounted up, settling herself into the side-saddle before waiting for him to mount up as well. He pulled his stallion up beside her mare, and they set off at an easy canter for the park.

He had timed their ride perfectly: judging by the number of carriages and horses on the roads in the park, they had arrived right in the middle of the Fashionable Hour, and although few riders actually greeted them, many curious eyes followed them when they passed.

They spoke little, and it was only after a long stretch of riding in silence, that the Duke remarked, “You’re upset about something.”

Sansa looked at him in surprise. She hadn’t realized the Duke paid any attention to her moods, and less that he cared enough to inquire about them.Perhaps he was just asking to make conversation, although she hadn’t known him to be bothered by silence in the visits he had paid her so far.Still, if he was going to make a polite overture like this, she would respond in kind. “Not upset, Your Grace, just…regretful.”

“About what?”

She pictured the scene when she had come downstairs to break her fast this morning: Jon had been dressed in his traveling clothes, his pack ready. Arya was nowhere to be seen; probably sulking. Sansa’s mother stood, wordless, overseeing the final preparations. Robb was the only one of them who spoke with Jon - always had been, really, aside from Bran and Rickon, who were still at Winterfell and would be for the foreseeable future. The two young men finally embraced before Jon strode out the front door, and, most likely, out of their lives for good.

“Our father’s ward left this morning to take up a commission in the Army.”

“An excellent way for a young man to prove himself. Why did this cause you to feel regret?” She was again surprised by the curiosity in his tone, as if he really did want to know more about her feelings.It was disconcerting, to find herself under his close examination, after so many afternoons when it felt as though he would rather be anywhere but by her side.

“I was never especially kind to him, growing up. Nor was my mother. I realized that perhaps I should have been less focused on myself, and spared some feelings for others.It wouldn’t have hurt me, and it might have made his childhood easier.”

He nodded, as if he truly were considering her words. “A conclusion many of us reach at some point in our lives. Perhaps you’re fortunate to have arrived at it so young.”

She smiled at him then, because she realized he really, honestly was trying to be kind. Then her face fell. “And with Jon gone, I worry about my sister, Arya.”

“Why?”

“He’s the only person she’s ever really been able to connect to. She’s…different. Perhaps you noticed.”

He smiled back, the shadow of a smile that perhaps had been more common in the past. “A bit, yes. She doesn’t seem especially interested in becoming a great lady like her mother.”

Sansa chuckled. “No. She’s always wanted to go off and slay dragons like the characters in her stories. We’ve tried telling her there aren’t any dragons left to slay, but that doesn’t seem to stop her.”

“Quite the contrary, Lady Sansa. There are plenty of dragons - they happen to be rampaging across the continent as we speak. They’re simply dressed in the blues of the _Grande Armée_.”

They both fell silent for a time, before Sansa observed, “You’re in a pleasant mood this morning, Your Grace.”

“I’m always in a better mood when I’m outdoors and engaged in physical activity. Perhaps I should never have left the Army.”

Sansa urged her horse into a faster canter, to move around a particularly slow-moving couple, as the Duke did the same on their other side. When they had come back together, she replied, “I’ve heard you’re proving yourself more useful to the Crown in your current position.”

“Perhaps. Regardless, my morning ride is the only exercise I get most days, and I savor it.”

Sansa had no idea what made her say what she said next. Perhaps it was the fact that it felt so easy, bantering like this - so different from their stilted conversation in the drawing room, or on their slow walks together. “Might I join you on future rides, Your Grace?”

She looked up to see that he was studying her carefully, as if he were trying to assess the motivation behind her request. “If you wish. I would be happy to have you accompany me.”

What was that little thrill that ran through her, at the idea of having more rides like this one? At the idea of him actually welcoming her company?

Too soon, they had completed the loop he had set out for them, and returned to the Stark townhouse. They halted on the street in front of the house, since the Duke would be keeping Lady in his own stables until the wedding. The Duke had just handed Sansa down and was about to make his farewell when the Duchess of Winterfell burst through the doors of the townhouse, obviously distressed.

Catelyn Stark looked briefly at the Duke, then hurried over to Sansa.

“Sansa, we need you inside, right away.” She grabbed one of Sansa’s hands, and began to tug her daughter toward the doors, as Sansa, uncomprehending, followed as quickly as she could.

“Mother, what’s happened?” Sansa tried to ask, but her mother would say nothing; she simply led her, nearly at a run, through the house to the library, where Robb sat at the desk with his head in his hands. Sansa looked from one of the them to the other, feeling her heartbeat speed up as she wondered desperately what was wrong. Had something happened to Father?

A moment later, the sounds of purposeful strides and the fruitless attempts of a footman to fend off the visitor heralded the approach of the Duke of Casterly Rock. As odd as it was, Sansa realized she was glad he had pushed his way in; perhaps his counsel would be valuable in the face of whatever was going on.

“Your Grace, I told him you weren’t taking visitors, and he wouldn’t-”

Sansa turned to the footman. “It’s alright, Sean. Leave us.”

The footman bowed and left. The Duke approached Sansa’s mother, and asked quietly, “Madam, is there any way I can be of service?”

Catelyn Stark searched his face for a long moment, her expression grim.Then, finally, she sighed.  "Take a seat, Your Grace. Robb, tell them.”

Robb looked up from where he sat. “Arya’s gone.” Sansa could feel a lump forming in her throat, as she tried to make sense of what her brother was saying. “She must have disappeared sometime last night, although we could find no note - no information about where she’s gone. We’ve sent one of the footmen out to search the neighborhood, but I don’t know how much he can do. She’s sure to be out of the city by now, if that was her intent.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

“If you’ll accept my assistance,” the Duke finally offered, “I’ll send one of my men out after her. If anyone can find her, he will.”

“Your Grace,” Sansa began, “This is a family matter. We can’t allow you to inconvenience yourself.” She knew too well what the Duke’s assistance might cost, and if there was a chance they could find Arya on their own…

Clearly thinking the same thing she was, Robb asked at the same time, “What do you ask for in return?”

“Nothing I haven’t already claimed,” the Duke replied, his voice hard and unyielding.

Sansa felt herself shudder. Gone was the kind, attentive man she had ridden beside that morning; the domineering, possessive Duke was back in full force.

***

The next few weeks moved quickly. Now that the Duke had attended his first public event with Sansa on his arm, and the two of them were a frequent sight in Hyde Park, it seemed that they could formally announce their engagement without risking talk of scandal. The betrothal documents were drawn up: the Starks would be providing a dowry appropriate for a woman of Lady Sansa’s station, although the Duke had asked for nothing beyond that - after all, what need had he of funds from his wife’s family, when he was already the wealthiest man in the realm? The betrothal was announced in the papers; banns were read; the Starks made arrangements for the wedding breakfast.

There was no word of Arya, either from the people the Stark family had been able to send out, or from the Lannister man who had been sent after her. She seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Sansa knew that her sister was resourceful, but the chances of her, a noble girl used to comfort and convenience, surviving on her own seemed frighteningly slim. Sansa wouldn’t allow herself to hope too much; not when the odds were stacked against them.

The only bright spots in days filled with a strange juxtaposition of melancholy and worry, on the one hand, and the frivolous minutiae of wedding planning, on the other, were Sansa’s morning rides with the Duke. On those occasions, Sansa was able to forget for a little while the deadening weight of her days and simply enjoy the pleasure of riding a fine horse on what was usually a crisp morning, when the chill of winter reminded Sansa of home. And it was always on these rides that she felt like she got her only glimpses of the man behind the cool exterior.

But on every other occasion, he was just as stiff and formal as ever.

It was a break from their routine when one afternoon the Duke came by with an invitation to attend a new exhibition by a few of the portrait painters at the Royal Academy of Arts. Before his arrest, Sansa’s father had promised to take her there, and she had long wanted to see some of the paintings she had read about that were displayed in the permanent exhibitions. She looked at him curiously when he extended the invitation: he had never before struck her as a man who had much patience for art.

As they moved through the throngs of visitors across the large central rooms, up grand staircases and through long hallways, she found herself stopping to look at each painting in turn, captivated by the stories each portrait or landscape or scene had to tell.But the Duke seemed less interested in the art; he walked patiently beside her, his hands clasped behind his back, looking dutifully at each painting before moving on to the next.

Until he suddenly stopped in front of one canvas, about halfway up a side wall.She could see his attention fix on it, his eyes soften as he looked.

“General Wolfe,” he whispered reverently, extending his hand so close, his finger was nearly touching the face of the dying man in the painting.“Men were still talking about his campaign when I arrived in New York, fifteen years later.”

Sansa approached the canvas, curious not about the painting itself - although it certainly was striking, with its unusual composition and almost religious overtones - but by her companion. His face was so absorbed, so open, wearing an expression she only ever saw on their morning rides, that she prodded him, “Tell me about it.”

“He’s three-quarters of the reason Napoleon has no land in North America to harry us from. He was a brave man.” The Duke said no more, and Sansa assumed it was because he had reached his limit of the military talk he was willing to have with her.

So she took a risk, and turned the conversation back to him. “You were young, when the war began?”

He looked at her, as if to make sure she actually wanted to hear about it; but what he found in her expression must have appeased him, because he began, “I was still a boy when I entered Army training. My father had purchased my commission because I had begged for it, but he hated the idea of a Lannister being a soldier - he considered that beneath us.”

Sansa chuckled. “It’s hard to imagine you begging for anything, Your Grace.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s been a long time since it’s happened, but it’s not impossible, Lady Sansa.”

She suddenly had the strong feeling that he was implying something entirely different, and she felt her cheeks warm.

But he continued, “My first few years, I served in India, but when war broke out in the Americas, my regiment was sent to New York. The whole city was a powder keg, ready to burst at any moment. Many nights I spent breaking up seditious gatherings and restoring order on the streets, before they sent my regiment south to quell the rebellion in the Carolinas.”

He paused. She knew enough about the history of the war- her father had fought in it too, after all -to know that the Carolinas would have been a horrific place to fight: blood and suffering on both sides, a war of attrition drawn out for years. Had that experience been what hardened him? Or perhaps he had always been cold and callous, and it was that unyielding nature that had allowed him to survive - and then emerge as the victor.

Sansa knew the stories: his father had been spineless, had nearly brought the dukedom to financial ruin until a young Tywin, newly returned from the war, had chased down those who owed the family money and bled every last ha’penny out of them. Which is how he earned his reputation for being efficient and utterly brutal.

Suddenly, something caught Sansa’s eye in the crowd. A flash of silver; a flash of black.

It was a woman Sansa had never seen before, making her way through the crowd: small, certainly shorter than Sansa; with hair so blond as to be white, done up in elaborate braids, and wearing an unusual black dress that looked almost like armor. Beside her strode a man Sansa vaguely recognized - perhaps another Northern lord?

For a second, the woman’s eye caught Sansa’s, and they stood, their gazes locked. Then, before Sansa could turn to the Duke and ask if he recognized the woman, the pair were gone. Sansa shook her head to clear it of the strange sight.

“Lady Sansa,” the Duke said, turning to her, “I believe I’ve kept you from your mother for too long. Shall we?”

Still preoccupied by the sight of the woman she had just seen, she took his arm, and he led them back through the throng to where his ducal carriage awaited. He handed her inside before stepping in himself and rapping on the roof to signal the coachman to begin their slow progress through the crowded streets of London, back to the Stark townhouse.

They were silent for several minutes, both of them looking out the windows as rain-drenched streets rolled by.

It was the Duke who spoke first. “Lady Sansa,” he began, his gaze fixed uncomfortably on her, “has a man ever kissed you?”

Sansa nearly fell off her seat in shock. Was the Lion Duke actually asking her if she’d been kissed? Of all the wildly inappropriate things…

Then again, they would be married in just over a week. And presumably some kissing would be required - or at least would be quite likely. In that sense, it was actually a rather practical question.

“No, Your Grace. I have not yet had that experience.”

He watched her intently for another moment, then tapped the seat beside him. “Come here.”

It wasn’t possible…the Lion Duke couldn’t possibly be planning to do what Sansa thought he was…could he? And yet, curiosity and the growing desire to please him, to make him happy, won out.

She shifted over, so she was sitting beside him, and before she could register what was happening, he had pulled her onto his lap and covered her lips with his own.

At first, his kiss was gentle, undemanding. One of his hands held the back of her head steady as he kissed her, while the other trailed down to her waist, keeping her body from jerking too hard as the carriage moved onward. She was surprised to find that she didn’t dislike his touch at all; in fact, quite the contrary.

Then, the pressure of his hand on her neck tightened, his thick leather glove rubbing against her bare skin in an oddly pleasurable way, and he was claiming her mouth, taking what he wanted. His tongue ran across the seam of her lips, and before she understood what he was doing, he had ventured inside her mouth, claiming what he found there, too. And yet, even with that degree of force, she could feel the power he was drawing on to hold himself back. She wondered what it would be like if he ever released all of his carefully held control at once. She was surprised to find that she was curious to discover the answer.

After several minutes, something seemed to summon him back. He pressed one more gentle kiss to her lips, another to her temple, and pulled away; but he kept her in his lap as the carriage jolted its way along the damp city streets, her head tucked under his chin, his hands still stroking her hair and her waist. Neither of them spoke; both of them seemed to appreciate that while, strictly speaking, this was something that the _ton_ would frown upon, it was, in fact, well within the bounds of liberties a gentleman might take with his betrothed, with the wedding only a few days away.

He kissed her several more times during that ride, before the carriage finally ground to a stop and he descended the steps to help her out, as stiffly and properly as if nothing at all untoward had just gone on.

***

_Shorncliffe Camp, Kent_

Things had gone more smoothly than Arya had expected. The officer in charge of enlistment had accepted her forged papers without question, and she had managed to snag a bunk in the corner of the barracks, where she could be reasonably assured of some degree of privacy.

Her only regret was that Jon, with his commission, had been quickly shuffled off to some other location, and she hadn’t seen him since they arrived together, a few days earlier.

Now she stood on the parade ground, her ill-fitting uniform as clean as might be expected under the circumstances; her hair chopped as short as she and Jon had been able to manage when they had dressed her as a boy, the night before they left; and one of the unit's new rifles at her shoulder.

She had never felt so free, so at home, as she did in this dirty encampment, among low-born men and gentlemen alike; this was where she was meant to be.

As they went through the firing drills, learning how to reload and aim quicker each time; as they learned marching formations and how to defend or charge, how to move over the rough terrain they would find when they were sent over to Spain in a few months, she felt herself growing more and more into a soldier.

It wasn’t until a week into her training, when, at a break in drills, she heard a voice remark, “A little short for a soldier, aren’t you, lad?” that she realized she was in trouble.

She tried to ignore the comment, to get away from whoever this suspicious man was, to get back to the crowded parade ground, but a second later, she felt a large hand on the back of her neck, and found herself turned fully around to face a giant man with a horrific burn mark covering half of his face.

He chuckled. “Yup. I thought so. Arya Stark?”

She tried not to flinch, not to give herself away, but part of her already knew the game was up.

“Your new brother-in-law, the Duke, sent me along to fetch you home. So let’s go.”

She dug in her heels as much as she could, with a heavy hand still on her shoulder. “I’m not going home.”

“Oh no? Convinced you’ll become a redcoat hero, then?”

“I don’t care about being a hero.” She tried to fix this man with her most intimidating, stubborn expression, the one that always had Sansa and Mother sighing in exasperation. “But I won’t go home.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not my sister. I’m not going to let them marry me off to some old man. I don’t want that life.”

“And you think she does?”

“She’s always wanted to be a great lady. She at least gets part of what she wants. I don't want any of it.”

He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, and Arya saw her chance. While he was still distracted, she dug her nails into the hand gripping her, until the large man cried out and let go of her. Then she raced off into the crowd, hoping to lose him for at least a little while.

And Arya’s strategy worked, for about a week. The big man stayed away from Arya, and although she could feel his eyes constantly on her, he never spoke to her or approached her. Instead, he joined in the training as if he were actually an enlisted man, rather than a Lannister spy; and everyone seemed to accept his presence during the drills.

It was almost a week later that he finally cornered her again after dinner, in a dark corridor between tents. He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look right at him. “Arya Stark,” he asked, his voice surprisingly soft, “you’ve had a fortnight to see what this is like, although I assure you that battle is a hundred times worse than anything you’ve seen yet. Do you still want to be a soldier? I’ll take you home right now if you don’t.”

She examined him, his horrifying face strangely kind, understanding. She realized he was the only person, aside from Jon, who had ever respected her ambitions and didn’t simply dismiss them as ridiculous. He would do exactly as he said: if she had changed her mind, he would extract her with no consequence to either of them. But if she wanted to stay, he would respect that, too. She felt herself puff up with pride, that she had earned the regard of such a hard and gruff man.

“This is where I’m meant to be. I’m staying.”

He smiled then, a wicked twist to his lips. “Then I guess I’m reenlisting.” He stretched out his hand, and she took it. “Sandor Clegane, at your service.”

***

Lord Robb Stark had nearly fallen asleep over the towering stack of ledgers when the note was delivered to his father’s office late one afternoon.

It bore the seal of the Duke of Casterly Rock, which of itself was not altogether unexpected these days - they were in the midst of finalizing the wedding contract, after all, with the wedding only a few days away.

But it was the words inside that stunned him. “Newgate Prison,” it read. “Tonight at 8 pm. Enter through the gate on the Bailey side.”

It was not that Robb hadn’t expected the Duke to deliver on his promise to help in Father’s defense. But the Lion Duke had apparently done what was necessary to allow Robb to see his father for the first time in over six months. The man might be cold and domineering and unpleasant, but Robb was forced to admit that perhaps there was, in fact, some redeeming quality to him, if he was willing to grant this boon without further compensation.

As the Duke had promised, a guard let Robb in through the proper gate at the proper time, and before he knew it, he was being shown into a cell.

A dark cell. It took several long minutes for Robb’s eyes to adjust to the faint glow of the half-full moon filtering in through a small, barred window high in the wall. Apparently even noble prisoners weren’t afforded much by way of candlelight in here.

And cold. Robb found himself shivering, even beneath his heavy wool cloak. There was no fire, and nothing to stop the wind from blowing right through the open bars of the window.

“Father?” He tried hard to keep his voice from cracking.

There was silence. Then, finally, a weak voice: “Robb?”

Robb rushed to where his father’s voice had issued from, and nearly tripped over what he realized must be the man’s body, lying prone on the cell floor.

When Robb reached down to feel for his father’s form, he could feel only thin material covering him - nothing heavy or warm. And while it was hard to tell without being able to see him properly, Ned Stark felt thinner than he should.

Then, the older man coughed, and Robb felt panic overtake him. His father was weak and sick, and lying alone in a cold cell. Perhaps the Crown didn’t need to try him at all: incarcerating him here might be a death sentence the elements were already carrying out, even now.

Robb’s thoughts went to Sansa. Had she agreed to marry the horrible Duke for nothing, if Father was on Death’s door, regardless of what they were able to produce in court?

Ned Stark coughed again, rousing Robb from his musings. But before Robb could respond, he heard a woman’s low voice speaking to the guard outside the cell; he heard the sound of the lock drawing back; and he vaguely saw the outline of a tall, slender woman, skirts swishing, as she settled down beside the Duke of Winterfell.

The woman ignored Robb as she tended to his father. “Your Grace,” she murmured, and Robb’s heart warmed at the knowledge that at least his father’s nurse was still treating him with the respect he deserved, while he was sick and in prison, “How is your cough this evening?”

The Duke murmured something in response, too low for Robb to hear. The nurse carried on a low conversation with him for a moment, before she pulled away and turned to Robb. “Are you the son?”

“I am, Lady...”

“Nurse is fine.”

Robb bristled. This woman had no reason to hide her identify from him - why wouldn’t she just tell him her bloody name? She knew his father was a duke, and yet she refused to answer him?

But she was helping his father, and he knew that chastising her would do nothing to improve the situation. So he took a deep breath, struggling to keep his temper at bay.

She had already risen by the time he collected himself, and at her knock, the guard opened the door once more. She proceeded into the hallway and, with nothing else left to do, he followed.

“Your father is very ill.”

He clenched his jaw. “Yes. I can tell.” He paused, not wanting to antagonize the nurse but still feeling the low burn of frustration at her infuriating reluctance to speak. “Is there anything to be done?”

She nodded. “There are better cells to be had in one of the other wings of the prison. Warmer, drier than this one. If you have a patron - and you must, if you were permitted to visit tonight - then you should have him request a transfer.”

Robb sighed. Just another item to be added to the list of accounts in the Lion Duke’s favor. And as everyone knew, Lannisters always paid their debts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting Tywin and Sansa stop to look at is The Death of General Wolfe by Benjamin West, which would have been on display in the Royal Academy at the time.


	4. Chapter 4

_London, January 1813_

Sansa’s wedding day dawned, and in what felt like no time at all, she found herself standing in the back of the parish church, her hand in Robb’s. She wore a gown she had made specially for this occasion - a light blue to complement her eyes - and a gold necklace and earrings studded with sapphires that had been delivered, courtesy of the Duke, the previous afternoon. Even before she said the words and signed the paper, he was making it clear that she belonged to him.

And she had consented to it, as ominous as it had felt to hang the proof of his ownership around her neck and on her ears. If she was being truly honest with herself, she had consented that first evening, when she told Robb to allow him to court her. She had known how this would end from the moment he extended his hand, asking her to dance.

Robb looked at her then, sympathy in his expressive blue eyes, those eyes that often mirrored Sansa’s own; except now, when her marriage would create an unbridgeable rift between the two of them: she would be a Lannister, no longer a Stark, by the end of the morning. “Are you sure, Sansa?” He gripped her hand tightly. “I’ll stop the wedding if you’ve changed your mind. It’s not too late.”

She found her temper rising at her brother’s comment, clearly intended to make himself feel like he had done his duty as her brother. Of course she wouldn’t bow out now; she wasn’t that selfish, after all, and she still had a duty to her family, whatever her personal feelings on the matter. But his weak attempt to make it seem as if she still had a choice felt like a mockery of the whole situation.

She took a deep breath, and laid her hand on Robb’s elbow. “No, Robb. I am decided.”

It was time.She would be strong; she would survive whatever today threw at her.The blood of Starks and Tullys ran through her; the blood of brave knights and proud ladies from ages past.She would not bend, even as her heart hammered in her chest and her hands trembled.

Robb led her down the aisle to where her bridegroom stood, his attire immaculate as always. She watched the Duke’s face as her brother transferred her to his arm, and wondered what he was thinking. Was he celebrating his triumph, that he had secured the woman he wanted and would soon have his new heir? Or did he feel some modicum of guilt, at betraying his long-dead first wife - the woman he was supposed to have loved so much, he had none left to spare for anyone else - by taking a second? Or did he perhaps even feel some remorse for pushing his new wife into a marriage she didn’t want?

If he did feel any guilt or remorse or shame, it was not apparent on his face.

She looked away, and bride and groom knelt side-by-side as the priest began to read the familiar words from the Book of Common Prayer.

Sansa could feel the Duke’s constant, heavy presence beside her as they listened to the priest carry on, as they said their vows to one another. She couldn’t decide if she found it comforting or stifling.

Behind them, the assembly was small: Mother, Robb, the Duke’s brother - a man Sansa had had little contact with so far, but who seemed pleasant enough. There was some relief in the fact that they weren’t doing this in front of a crowd; that family would be the only ones to hear Sansa’s voice tremble as she repeated the lines the priest read to her.

At the appropriate moment in the ceremony, the Duke pulled a thin gold ring from his pocket. His voice was low as he recited the words: “With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” and slid it onto her finger quickly, efficiently, without looking at her.

She wondered then: was he sincere in the vows he made her? Or was this all a farce, a pageant of love and devotion when, in reality, she was merely an object to him, to be cast aside once she had served her purpose? And truly, how could he be sincere in his vows?They barely knew each other, after all.This was a marriage between strangers, for the purpose of ensuring the dukedom would pass to one of his sons; nothing more.

They took Communion, still kneeling there at the front of the church. Sansa wondered if her bridegroom was a churchgoing man, or if he was simply going through the motions now to keep up appearances. It was hard to imagine as ruthless a man as the Lion Duke piously attending church on Sundays.

It took a moment for Sansa to realize that the ceremony was over; her bridegroom cleared his throat, his hand outstretched as he waited to escort her into the vestry, where they would sign their names in the ledger.

Her hand shook as she wrote her name as neatly as she could manage on the page, just one more spot in a large book that must have recorded hundreds of previous weddings and baptisms, and would record hundreds more. There was a certain degree of comfort in the idea that hundreds of women had gone through this before her, and hundreds would follow her; she must not be the only woman fearful of what might happen on her wedding night.

Then, the priest closed the ledger, and Sansa was officially a married woman.

Not just any married woman. Sansa Lannister, Duchess of Casterly Rock. What would Father say, when he heard? Had someone already told him, locked away in his lonely cell at Newgate?

She took the Duke’s - her husband’s, she corrected herself - offered arm, and they walked back down the aisle together as man and wife. A strange sight they must make, she thought, as he handed her into the carriage: a young woman married to a man old enough to be her grandfather.

There were more people present at the wedding breakfast, held at the Stark townhouse: the Tyrells, of course, with the Dowager Duchess looking suspiciously at the Duke of Casterly Rock from the corner where she sat; the Baratheons, including dear Lady Myrcella, smirking Lord Joffrey, the bitter Duchess, and the drunken Duke; Sansa’s new brother-in-law, Lord Kevan Lannister, and his family; and her grandfather and uncle, the Duke of Riverrun and Lord Edmure Tully.

Sansa had been to bigger, louder assemblies, but the fact that this was an event celebrating her own marriage to a man she barely knew; that her father was still imprisoned; that they had still heard nothing from the man the Duke had sent after Arya, even after weeks of searching; it all proved too much. She found herself sitting, frozen, beside her new husband, barely able to touch her food.

“Duchess,” he murmured, his hand lightly touching her upper arm, a possessive gesture disguised as a tender one, “you need to eat. You cannot starve yourself on our wedding day.”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she replied weakly, “I just…feel faint.”

He frowned. “Silly girl. Of course you feel faint - you haven’t eaten anything.” He motioned to one of the footman, who promptly returned carrying a plate of lemon cakes. “Have one of these.”

She didn’t understand him - this man who could go from utterly uncaring to sweetly attentive, knowing her favorite foods and having them sent over before she even thought of it herself.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied quietly, as she began to cut off small pieces of the cake, partly to fortify herself and partly just to pacify him.

There was no dancing; no music; and to Sansa, it felt like the breakfast was over before it had begun, with the guests ushering her and her new husband into his carriage, which set off immediately for the Lannister townhouse. She realized as they sat in silence during the ride that she had never actually set foot inside the Duke’s London residence; and yet now it would be her new home for the foreseeable future, unless perhaps he intended to send her off to his ancestral home at Casterly Rock, once he had gotten an heir on her.

When the carriage pulled up outside the townhouse - a large, grand building in Grosvenor Square - the Duke handed Sansa down and led her through the doors, where she found herself faced with what looked like an army of servants, all waiting for inspection by the new mistress of the house. She knew that this was the tradition when a couple arrived home after a wedding, but it still felt as if the Duke had arranged this to test her.And wherever their relationship stood, she desperately did not want him to find her lacking in this regard.

When she approached, the servants all bowed or curtseyed in unison. The Duke introduced the housekeeper, and she, in turn, introduced the two maidservants who would be tending to the Duchess; then the others scurried off, still anonymous. Sansa hoped she might learn their names soon, since she found that was often the best way to get things done. But she also wondered just how much power she might have in her new role; how much the Duke might try to cut her off from having any influence, even within the household.

He turned to her then, his arm extended to her. “Well. I suppose I should show you around,” he remarked flatly, as if helping his wife get her bearings in her new home was the last thing he wanted to do. Still, she took his arm, and he led her through the drawing room, which was filled with quality, if somewhat out-of-date furnishings. She was willing to guess that it was sorely underused, given the Duke’s habits she had observed so far. Then there was the large, formal dining room, occupied by a long, grand table that she assumed must only see guests infrequently; and a few other public rooms, before he deposited her in the parlor.

“I am most frequently in my study, when I am home at all, so this room is yours, should you wish it.”

She nodded, trying not to be hurt by his flippant tone: after all, he was giving her space in his home - their home, she thought with a jolt of fear - and she should be pleased, however gruffly he presented it to her. She looked around, satisfied to see that her sewing had been laid out beside one of the sofas. A piano stood in the corner, too, and she could see that someone - the housekeeper, perhaps - had laid out a few books that perhaps they thought young ladies might be interested in.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied, not quite ready to drop the armor that formal address provided her with. She turned to see whether he had anything else to say to her, but he was already out the door, presumably headed to his study to work on whatever he had brought back with him from the War Office.Apparently, the Duke did not intend to take a break from his work, even on his wedding day.

So Sansa sat on the sofa, and tried to pretend she wasn’t sitting alone on her wedding day, in a house full of servants but empty of friends or allies. She looked at the piano once or twice - she was considered a well enough player, among those who had heard her - but somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to try playing in this disconcertingly cold place. Her hands moved across the fabric efficiently, and she allowed her mind to dull, pleased with the distraction. A servant appeared partway through the afternoon with cakes and tea, and she went through the charade of taking tea with herself - something she had never done, growing up in a house that was always full of family and visitors.

When evening finally arrived, the low light filtering in through the windows already replaced by candles a servant had lit in the waning afternoon, Sansa’s two maidservants appeared at the door.“Your Grace,” one of them said, “shall we dress you for dinner?”

Sansa nodded, and followed the two girls upstairs to what she assumed would be the Duchess’ chambers and allowed them to dress her in one of the formal evening gowns that had been brought over from the Stark townhouse during the wedding breakfast this morning.

As they dressed her, the maidservants held their faces in perfectly neutral expressions, speaking only when necessary.They were ideal ducal servants, Sansa thought: trained to be voiceless, calm, expressionless, utterly unobtrusive.Why did the thought that even her maidservants would not be potential friends in this cold place make her want to weep?

When they finished, and Sansa descended the stairs again, the Duke was waiting mutely at the bottom, his hand held out to her, ready to escort her to dinner.

She leaned on his arm as he led her into the dining room. Places had been set at one end of the large dining table: his at the head of the table and hers beside him. But once he had seated her and a footman brought out the first course, their proximity did little to encourage conversation. He remained wholly engaged in the papers he had brought to him from the study, and she did her best not to feel foolish, dining with little company but her own thoughts. She moved through each course without much enthusiasm, looking forward to him offering some kind of conversation, and dreading what it was likely to be.

It turned out that her fears were well-founded: as soon as they finished the dessert course, the Duke rose from his seat, offering his hand, and said simply, “It’s time to retire. Your maidservants have been instructed to prepare you.”

She nodded and silently walked with him up the stairs to the level where the main bedrooms were located. She paused for a moment as she watched him disappear into what she assumed were his chambers, before she entered her own, which she knew would connect internally to his.

The night before, her mother had explained the mechanics of what would happen on her wedding night. Sansa wasn’t a complete innocent; they bred horses at Winterfell, after all. But hearing her mother warn her that there would be pain; that her husband might be rough with her; that if he was too violent, she might ask him to take her more gently, and he might agree - that had filled her with dread for what was to come. She knew that her parents loved one another, and she couldn’t imagine father ever being rough with her mother; but her own husband was still an enigma, unpredictable and not the smallest bit frightening.

Her maidservants were waiting mutely inside the door, their faces held in perfectly neutral expressions. They were ideal ducal servants, she thought: trained to be voiceless, calm, expressionless, utterly unobtrusive. Why did the thought that even her maidservants would not be potential friends in this cold place make her want to weep?

The maidservants were efficient in their work.They helped Sansa out of her gown and stays and into a soft, light dressing gown. They pulled her hair down from its elaborate style and brushed it out. They dabbed perfume on her wrists and neck - a strange bedtime ritual, Sansa thought - and finally left her alone at her vanity with no one for company except her own thoughts.

Not for long. It was only a few moments before the connecting door to the Duke’s chambers creaked open, and Sansa found her new husband standing before her in his own dressing gown, his face unreadable in the flickering candlelight.

She rose, nervously smoothing out her gown. How was this even supposed to begin? “Your Grace…”

He stepped toward her, and when he was close enough to easily reach, he took a strand of her hair and wound it around his finger - a gesture not of affection, but of ownership.

“Sansa,” he said softly, his gaze trapping her, “It’s perfectly acceptable for a wife to call her husband by his Christian name.”

She nodded, unable to look away. “Tywin,” she tried, the syllables feeling alien on her tongue.

His hand moved to her cheek, and then his mouth was on hers.

It was gentle at first, a slow exploration, his lips gliding over hers. But slowly it became more insistent, his hands sliding from her cheek and her waist down to her neck and up to the swell of her breasts, gliding over the silk of her dressing gown.

Where their assignation in the carriage a few days before had been little more than him proving a point, sending a message; this was the beginning of something Sansa couldn’t name, that frightened her for reasons she still didn’t understand. He knew what he was doing…and she didn’t, at all.

It took her a moment before she realized that he had guided them toward the big bed that occupied the center of the room, which the maidservants had already turned down.

“Sansa,” he said softly, almost tenderly, pausing at the edge of the bed, “has your mother told you about what happens between man and wife?”

She nodded. “She said it hurts, the first time.”

“Sometimes. I’ll do my best to avoid that, but there may be a bit of pain. Can you trust me?”

A strange question. Could she trust the husband she didn’t want, barely knew outside of a stilted, formal courtship? But somehow she found herself nodding.

“Then let yourself relax. Let me lead you. And tell me if I hurt you. Can you do that?”

She nodded again, and he pushed her down onto the large bed. His hands left her hips for a moment, and when his touch returned, her husband’s suddenly bare body was hovering over hers as he kissed her again.

She had never seen a naked man before - her younger brothers aside - and she was a bit curious about what her husband looked like, without his perfectly tailored suits. When he settled on top of her, her hands fell on a firmly muscled chest that suggested perhaps his morning rides weren’t, in fact, the only exercise he was getting. His legs, too, felt solid and powerful, where they lay between hers, and something she could only assume was his manhood - that was what her mother had called it, when the Duchess had explained things to Sansa the night before - was pressing against her thigh.

But he didn’t give her the chance to simply look. No, he was too demanding and insistent for that.

He pushed her robe open and his hands found her breasts, her hips, her thighs, parts of her no one had touched before, not even she herself. She tried to do what he wanted - tried to relax into his touch - but it was all too much. All she could think of was what might come after.

But when his mouth fell to one of her breasts and sucked on it, she lost herself for a second and couldn’t stop the mewl that his touch dragged out of her. She quickly covered her mouth with her hand, ashamed at the utterly unladylike noise she had just made.

He growled, and ripped her hand away from her mouth. “Don’t cover yourself, Sansa. I want to hear every noise that comes from your beautiful mouth.” Then he kissed her again, aggressive, demanding.

She did as he asked: she let go. She whimpered, and moaned, and panted as his hands and mouth explored her body. She forgot to feel shame, or fear at what was to come. She entirely forgot that he had forced her into a marriage she didn’t want; that he was old, and unkind, and unpleasant. All she could think of was how his body felt on hers.

When the fingers that had been edging their way up her thighs finally entered her, and emerged wet and slick, his lips fell to hers again in a harsh kiss. “You’re ready for me, Sansa,” he rasped, and she couldn’t help herself; she nodded, breathless.

He pulled away and examined her carefully for what felt like an eternity; but finally, seeming to find what he was searching for, he lined up his manhood with her entrance (as Sansa’s mother had called it), and began to push in, in a slow movement.

There were moments at which Sansa felt uncomfortably stretched; at which she would almost describe what she was experiencing as pain; except then, in the end, he was inside her, and there was nothing but him; nothing but his body on and in hers.

He started slowly, pulling in and out of her in long movements, his mouth moving over hers in time with his thrusts. He would stop every few strokes to look at her, checking wordlessly that she was still alright. She would nod, and he would start again.

As she adjusted to him, he slowly began to speed up, his pace quickening. She couldn’t help herself; she writhed under him, noises she had not known she could make coming out of her mouth. Finally, he was moving hard and fast, her body responding to him…

And then, all at once, his face was contorting in a way that looked almost painful, and she could feel him pumping into her, and she realized he was doing what her mother had said he would: he was depositing his seed inside her. If they were fortunate, this very encounter might result in a child. His long-awaited heir.

He rested for a moment, his sweat-streaked forehead on hers; then he bent to place one last kiss on her lips, and withdrew, dripping his seed onto her bare legs as he moved.

As he stood he declared, all emotion gone from his voice, “You have held up your end of the bargain. When your father’s trial begins, I will represent him myself.” Then he gathered up his discarded dressing gown and disappeared through the connecting door.

It was over, Sansa realized. She was no longer a virgin; the drops of blood on the sheet below her proved it. And now that it was over, her husband had no reason to stay with her; no reason to touch her until the following night, when they would presumably repeat the process - and the next, until they had proof that she was with child.

She should be relieved, that her father would have such a powerful ally, but all she could feel was empty and cast aside. She had been a fool to imagine she felt anything except duty when her husband lay with her; he clearly had no such illusions.

Pulling her dressing gown closed around her and the covers on top of her, Sansa curled up in her massive new bed, trying desperately to forget the feel of him between her legs as she fell into an uneasy sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

When she woke the next morning, her bed was as empty as it had been when she had fallen asleep; but one of the maidservants was stoking the fire, and the other was filling a large copper tub. Still in a daze, Sansa allowed the women to lead her into the tub and wash her hair, and tried not to imagine her husband’s hands between her legs as she bathed.

At that thought, she sat up, disturbed. Where had that idea come from?

The women dressed her in one of her morning gowns - she was glad to see that all of her favorite dresses had arrived - and she descended the stairs to the dining room. Would the Duke be there already? The thought of seeing him this morning - after what had occurred between them the night before - filled her with trepidation, but also with a thrill she didn’t quite understand. She chose not to examine the emotion too carefully.

But the dining room was empty when she arrived, except for a footman, who pulled out the chair she had occupied the previous evening as soon as she entered the room.

She paused, not sitting down yet. “Has His Grace already broken his fast?”

The footman nodded, his expression unwavering. “His Grace departed nearly two hours ago. He informed us that Your Grace might choose to break your fast later, and that we should be at your disposal. If Your Grace has any requests, I can bring them to the kitchen?”

The footman really was quite young, Sansa realized, and she smiled at him. She wondered how trying it must be, to serve the Lion Duke. Perhaps not much, if he spent as little time at home as she was starting to suspect. He must truly have taken a great deal of time out of his work at the War Office to court her - yet another puzzling piece of information. Had all of the time he had spent with her really only been to avoid the appearance of scandal?

She eyed the basket of rolls and the bowl of jam that already sat on the table. “I’ll be fine with rolls this morning…?”

“Charlie, Your Grace.” The boy flushed just a bit.

Sansa sat down and buttered a roll, wondering what she was expected to do with her time, with the Duke already away for what she assumed would be most of the day. Surely there would be some correspondence - and, in fact, when she asked about it, several letters were brought to her, mostly well-wishes for her wedding.

Responding to those letters, and sending out missives to a few of her own destinations - to Margaery, for one, requesting that she come by for tea - took Sansa most of the morning, and she was nearly finished with the pile when an announcement startled her out of her writing.

“Lord Tyrion Lannister to see you, Your Grace.”

Now that was a surprise. Sansa stood, smoothing out her gown, just in time to see a man who could be none other than the younger Lannister son enter the room.

He was small - that much, she had known from the gossip - but his gaze was uncomfortably knowing, as if he could tell everything he needed to know about her from a single glance. He bowed, and she curtseyed.

“My lord, your father-”

“-is already hard at work saving us from raping and pillaging by the French, I’m well aware. I have no interest in seeing my father; we’ve said all we need to say to one another for the time being.” He paused, examining her even more closely, if that was possible, than he had been before. “I came by to meet my new stepmother.”

Sansa felt her cheeks color. It was one thing to recognize, in the abstract, that marrying a man with grown children would make her their stepmother; it was another to have one of them - clearly older than she - point it out to her.

But no. He seemed to be trying to see if he could get the better of her, and she would not back down. “Have you come to meet me, or merely to see for yourself how likely it is your father will replace you in the line of succession to the dukedom?”

He looked at her for a moment, before he burst out laughing. It was a warm, pleasant sound, unlike the first time she had heard his father laugh. “My place in the line of succession shriveled up years ago, Mother. In fact, I don’t know that I was ever really in line for the dukedom in the first place; killing the first Duchess as part of my entry into this world seems to have disqualified me even before my lecherous, drunken ways had the chance to.”

His face was jovial, but there was clearly a great deal of pain concealed behind his pleasant facade. Sansa suddenly didn’t want to see any more of this man’s self-deprecation - or to hear him compare her to the first Duchess.

“My lord, would you like to join me for tea in the parlor?” She looked pointedly toward the doors.

“No.” He examined her again, his expression oddly thoughtful. “I didn’t come here for either of us to insult the other, as enjoyable as that might be. I actually came here to offer you something.”

She looked at him skeptically. He didn’t look like he had come bearing a wedding gift, after all.

“Two of the men who will take the stand as the Crown’s witnesses against your father - Sir Meryn Trant and Sir Ilyn Payne - are members of my club. I came to offer you the opportunity to take a look at my records and see if you might find anything you could use against them, should you so choose.”

The details of what the two men would testify to were still murky, but it appeared, from what Sansa had gathered so far, that Sir Meryn Trant and Sir Ilyn Payne both would testify to having seen Ned Stark conferring with known spies, on multiple occasions.She suspected that the Duke’s information had something to do with these witnesses, but if there were something in Lord Tyrion’s record books that might cast doubt on their credibility as witnesses, that might prove to be a boon for her father’s case.She felt her pulse quickening at the prospect.

Then it occurred to her:“I don’t see any record books with you today, my lord.”

Lord Tyrion smiled, a sly expression that promised at least a small degree of trouble. “No, our records are much too confidential to take out of our club. If you’d like to see them, you’ll have to come to the Dwarves’ Den in person.”

What an absurd name for a club - and yet, she could already imagine it: a strange mix of ostentatious displays of wealth and tawdry, cheap decor. Intentional extravagance and self-consciously poor taste. It fit him perfectly: nothing quite serious, but with an undertone of something that couldn’t quite be described as playful, either.

That’s what he was clearly doing now, of course: playing with her. Because he knew that it would be a terrible scandal for a Duke’s wife to set foot in a gambling den; but he also knew he had just offered something she couldn’t refuse.

“I can’t imagine His Grace would be pleased to discover his Duchess in a gambling den, Lord Tyrion.”

“And that’s why I don’t think either of us should tell him.” He bowed, then turned to leave, leaving Sansa’s now burning questions still unanswered. “Until next time, Mother.”

***

The Duke did not come home for dinner. Sansa tried to fight down the feeling of abandonment that crept up when she came down dressed for dinner and found herself alone, a single plate set for her at the end of the ridiculously long table. For someone who had grown up with four siblings, in a household that was never quiet, her new home was unsettling. Where were the fights, the tousles, the loud arguments?

She sewed quietly in the parlor for a few hours after dinner, and still, there was no sign of her new husband. She wondered idly if he might be intentionally avoiding her; but no, that was silly. The Duke didn’t care enough about his new wife to plan his movements around her. He had courted her to maintain appearances, and now that he had achieved his objective, it seemed he had no use for her, except as a vessel for childbearing. A sobering thought.

But she would not simply lie down and accept it. Even though she hadn’t chosen him in the first place, she wasn’t going to be a wife who stayed out of his way without complaint. If he gave her no role in his household, then she would need to forge one for herself.

So when her maidservants came in to help Sansa out of her gown and to take down the elaborate coiffure they had arranged only a few hours before, she asked them, “Tomorrow morning, wake me when the Duke rises. I would like to break my fast with him, before he leaves for the day.”

They nodded, and departed, leaving Sansa alone again. She blew out the candles and curled up again in the giant bed, wondering how it was possible to live in a great house bustling with servants, and yet feel so utterly alone.

She woke to the feeling of a hand undoing the ties on her shift, as lips traveled up the column of her neck.

“Tywin?” she murmured, still dazed with sleep.

“Sansa,” was his low reply, as one of his hands slid beneath her shift to her breast and the other inched up her thigh.

“When did you get home?” she asked, unwilling to stop him, but also unwilling to fully forgive the fact that he had disappeared without a single word, leaving her alone in a strange, new house with no one but his estranged son for company.

“A few minutes ago,” he replied calmly, his lips now trailing down to her exposed breast.

As much as she wanted to resist him, to show him that she disapproved of how he had treated her, the feelings he stirred up when he touched and kissed and…oh God, now _licked_ her were too much. She lost herself in his touch, descending into that place she had gone last night, where her body responded to him and her voice made those animalistic sounds she hadn’t known her vocal cords could make.

And she wasn’t the only one. He was grunting and growling too, noises she never would have imagined might come from the respectable Duke.

Suddenly, she had never wanted anything as much as she wanted his hard length - and she could feel now that it was hard, as it rocked against her leg - inside her.

“Tywin, _please_ ,” she begged, not even knowing where this side of her had come from, just knowing that she needed him, right away.

He growled then, and used one of his hands to pin both of hers above her head - not to trap her, she somehow knew, but to assert his dominance over her, and something about that made her flesh heat even more - and with the other, slid himself inside her in one swift movement.

Having him inside her was just as intoxicating as it had been the night before.The way his lips crushed against hers; the way he would rise up, only to drive in deeper; the way his fingers dug into her wrists; the way he placed his other hand on her hip to steady himself, to allow him to reach places deeper inside her.

Then, just like the previous night, he began to speed up as she could see in his face that he was losing his iron control, losing the hold he had over himself and giving in to pleasure.He shuddered inside her, his hands tightening on her hip and her wrists, then stilled.

She wanted to stay like this all night, she thought as he rested above her, his face slicked with sweat and his chest heaving from the effort of driving into her. She wanted to feel his closeness, this intimacy, the feeling of mattering to him, even if it was only in some small way. She knew she couldn’t hope for a love like the one her parents had, but perhaps she could have respect and comfort and quiet moments like this one.

But all too soon, the Duke moved away from her, and just like the night before, he slid from her with a single kiss, leaving her alone in the bed, bare and cold.

***

The next morning, he seemed surprised to see her at breakfast, so early the sun’s rays were only barely beginning to peek through the dining room windows.

“Duchess,” he remarked - more of a question than a greeting.

“Duke,” she responded, feeling a self-satisfied smirk creep onto her face. She had unsettled him. Good.

He watched her as she made her way to the table; but by the time Charlie had set a place for her and pulled out her chair, he was absorbed in his papers again.

They ate in silence, and she wondered how long it had been since he had regularly shared his meals with anyone. Perhaps he hadn’t been in the habit since his daughter married - and that must have been twenty years ago, at least.

“Duke,” she said again, causing him to look up - she could allow herself to call him Tywin when they were in bed, but the idea of calling him by his Christian name in the daytime, in front of servants, was unsettling for reasons she couldn’t name - “will you be home for dinner tonight?” She tried to make her tone sound as if she were simply curious, simply trying to make plans, rather than desperately hoping to not be left alone again. She wasn’t quite sure she succeeded.

“As you know, Sansa,” he began, his voice almost irritatingly patient, “I have a great deal of work to take care of, in order to ensure the French don’t overrun us and bring their revolution here to London, which I don’t believe any of us would like to see. So while I would much prefer your enjoyable company to that of my colleagues in the War Office, I’m afraid I will need to work late again tonight.”

Sansa wasn’t at all convinced that he actually preferred her company, but his words were pretty, and the message was clear.

“Then I will plan to dine with my mother tonight, if it please you, Duke.”

He nodded, his eyes already back on his paper. “Very well, Sansa. Give your mother my best.”

One last try, although she knew this one would fail before she even attempted it. “Will you come to church tomorrow?”

He didn’t even look up from his papers to respond. “While I respect and appreciate your piety, I do not have the time for such luxuries in my week. I would suggest you ask your mother, or perhaps the Tyrells, to accompany you.”

So that was that: gone were Sansa’s childhood fantasies of going out with her husband to church, or shopping. Or even dining with him each night. He had made it abundantly clear that his work took precedence over his wife.

She tried not to let defeat seep into her being.Her mother had taught her to be strong, to not rely on others for her own happiness, to forge her own way, and she would do that - with or without his help.

He departed soon after that, and she didn’t bother to ask him if she could take Lady and accompany him as far as the War Office; he had made his priorities clear enough.

So Sansa proceeded with her morning. She was about halfway through with her correspondence when a letter arrived bearing the Baratheon seal.

It was an invitation to tea that afternoon with the Duchess of Storm’s End and King’s Landing. Clearly a courtesy extended to a new family member - but Sansa wondered what else might be behind the invitation. Just as Lord Tyrion yesterday had clearly had more on his mind than simply meeting his new stepmother, Cersei Baratheon must have other motivations. Sansa penned a brief reply, thanking the Duchess for the offer.

As Sansa’s maids dressed her, she felt almost as though she were putting on armor and preparing for battle. She made sure she was wearing a dress in the latest style, her hair immaculate; she did not want to present the smallest thing Cersei might be able to fault her for.

It was strange, when the coach pulled up in the drive at the Baratheon residence and the footman leaped down to help her out - the place looked so empty, with no other visitors. It was simply too large for the city; it belonged on a large country estate. The residence had been part of the Targaryen holdings, and the Duke and Duchess had inherited it along with the title.

Sansa had heard rumors that the Baratheons employed a giant as their manservant and bodyguard, but she saw no sign of any servants who were larger than expected, as she entered the residence and was led into the drawing room.

Cersei was already seated when Sansa entered, a strange expression on her face. “Sansa, dear,” she said as she rose and embraced Sansa, before planting a kiss on her cheek.

Sansa could immediately tell: Cersei’s too-familiar behavior was intended to throw Sansa off, to make her feel uncomfortable. But she would not fall into that. She smiled right back, refusing to allow this woman to shake her placid facade, and responded, “Duchess, how kind of you to welcome me into the family.”

Cersei’s smile faded a little at that, as if Sansa’s undisturbed response, in turn, vexed her. But she kept up the veneer of courtesy and continued, “Sit, and let’s have some tea.”

The conversation was stilted, a mix of meaningless chatter and gossip that Cersei clearly intended to seem confidential. Sansa was beginning to wonder what the true purpose of this visit was - if Cersei had truly only invited her over to try to make her uncomfortable - when Lord Joffrey walked into the room.

“Joffrey, dearest,” Cersei cooed, “come say hello to your new grandmother.” They were clearly going to play that part up - and Sansa knew immediately that she could not show that it bothered her.

“Hello, grandmother,” he smirked.

“Good afternoon, Lord Joffrey.” She hoped that, once he had gotten in his barb, he might go, but no - he clearly had something else he wanted to convey. He sat in a chair opposite the settee Sansa occupied, and continued to smirk at her as Cersei carried on their conversation.

Several minutes later, Cersei had just made a polite inquiry about the Tyrells - although a rather oddly pointed one, Sansa thought, picturing Lord Joffrey’s unpleasant hand on Lady Margaery - when the young lord butted in, a self-satisfied grin on his face, “And is Lord Loras well? I’ve heard he’s quite popular with the...ladies.”

There was an insinuation behind Lord Joffrey’s remark that Sansa didn’t understand, even later, after she’d mulled it over for a while. It must be significant - otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered to come join the ladies at tea. What did he know about Lord Loras?

Cersei, on the other hand, seemed to understand the remark at once, because she immediately colored, and shushed him.There was something here that didn’t quite make sense, and she wondered if mother and son expected her to understand it as well, or if this was some game they were playing, toying with her without revealing what they intended.Whatever it was, it made her uneasy.

“I’m sure he is,” Sansa remarked, trying to keep her tone carefully neutral. Reactions gave people like this power.

Lord Joffrey cackled. Then, watching her carefully, he paused, clearly wanting her to say or do something else, or respond in some other way. She refused to give him that satisfaction. “Well, I’m off to the club. Goodbye, mother, grandmother.”

Gentlemen didn’t talk to ladies about going to their clubs; they made excuses, spoke around it. The fact that Lord Joffrey didn’t know this - or didn’t care - spoke volumes about his manners, although nothing his behavior hadn’t already revealed. She could easily understand why her husband had little to do with this family.

Sansa tried to steer the conversation to something more pleasant. “Is Lady Myrcella at home? I know my husband would like to hear news of her.”

Cersei raised her eyebrow. “Yes, of course he would.”

Sansa was surprised by the bitterness underlying Cersei’s comment. What on Earth went on in this family?

But they were interrupted by the presence of the lady herself - who threw herself at Sansa in a way that was genuine, quite different from her mother’s smugly confident greeting. Sansa hugged the girl back, and was pleased that at least one member of this family wasn’t cruel and calculating.

“Lady Myrcella,” Sansa huffed, still a bit thrown off balance by the girl’s embrace, “I trust you are well?”

The girl smiled brightly. “Quite well…it feels odd, but may I call you Grandmother?”

Somehow, when Myrcella said it, it sounded affectionate rather than condescending. She smiled. “Of course you may. But Sansa is also fine.”

Sansa could instinctively tell that Cersei would only permit them a few minutes to associate, and resolved to invite the girl over for tea - perhaps along with her cousin, Shireen, as well - as soon as possible, so they could enjoy each others’ company without Cersei’s intervention.

As Sansa had predicted, after a few minutes filled with Myrcella’s enthusiastic chatter, Cersei shooed the girl back upstairs, and then Sansa felt she could politely make her exit. 

From there, Sansa returned to the Duke’s - no, their - townhouse to dress for dinner, then made her way over to the Stark townhouse, delighted to be able to avoid another evening in the too-silent house.

Dinner at the Stark townhouse was a more subdued event than the dinners Sansa had been used to growing up, since Father, Arya, Bran, and Rickon were all absent - but at least, for a moment, Sansa could lay aside pretense and playacting and simply feel comfortable. Sansa had missed her family terribly in just the two days she had been gone, she realized - and she didn’t think her new life was going to get easier anytime soon.

***

Without any indication from her husband on what she should be devoting her time to, Sansa began to build a routine for herself. While the housekeeper had initially resisted Sansa’s intrusion into her offices, she eventually became accustomed to Sansa’s presence each morning after breakfast, reviewing the household business, such as it was. There was usually some correspondence to be addressed as well, although the Duke seemed to get less than his station would suggest - perhaps because he seemed to be rather averse to socializing, in general.Sansa hoped that, with time, she might be able to effect some change in that area - for their children’s sake, if not for her own.

It appeared, now that they were married and he had returned to his usual schedule, that the Duke would have little time for morning rides with Sansa.So, after her business was taken care of, she continued the routine on her own, uncaring that the _ton_ might see her riding without escort.After all, if they did, and the Duke minded, well then, he could take her riding himself.She would take long rides through Hyde Park, cantering Lady down the wide paths and feeling the joy and freedom of being outside, away from the stifling, tomb-like air of her husband’s townhouse.

Because that was still how she thought of it: his. Not their space, but his own, where she would be staying as a guest for the foreseeable future. A guest whom he took advantage of every night, but who was otherwise left alone.

“Your Grace!” A voice she already associated with unpleasant business called out to her.

Could she pretend she hadn’t heard him? No, he was far too close for that. So she pulled her horse up short, pasted a pleasant, vacant smile on her face, and turned to face her new companion, replying, “Lord Baelish. What brings you out here this morning?”

His horse stopped right beside hers, he smiled back, a smile that chilled her with its insincerity. “The desire for fresh air and exercise in our terribly close city. And where is His Grace this morning?”

She gritted her teeth, willing this conversation to be over. “My husband is seeing to the successful prosecution of the war effort. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

They were meant to be parting words, and he _had_ to know they were parting words, but he responded instead, “Yes, an excellent idea - let us ride as we talk.” And he began to canter beside her.

There was nothing, within the bounds of politeness, that she could do to shake him, so she sighed and accepted his presence. For the first few minutes, he was blessedly silent, and she could almost pretend he wasn’t there.

When he spoke again, though, she found herself forced to listen, despite herself. “I hear interesting things these days,” he remarked conversationally, “about certain knights who tend to frequent gambling dens - especially ones of ill repute.”

Sansa struggled to keep her countenance blank and serene. There was no way - how could he possibly know what Tyrion had revealed to her? And yet, why else would he be bringing this up in that awfully self-satisfied tone?

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I’ve always heard such topics were not proper for ladies to discuss.”

She watched as his smile grew wider and somehow more sinister. “Of course not, Your Grace - but they are interesting nonetheless, aren’t they?”

Sansa struggled to keep the bile down in her throat. What was this man’s game? What was he after? And why target her, of all people, instead of Robb, or her mother?

Then it came to her.He saw her as the weak link - the way to get at the others.Sansa had heard whispers of Lord Baelish’s obsession with her mother - although the Duchess herself had never discussed it with her children, of course.Sansa didn’t know what he wanted, but she was willing to guess it had something to do with her mother.With that insight in mind, Sansa suddenly saw that she was at an advantage: she could play along, and see where this might be going, without revealing her inner thoughts to this unpleasant man.

“I couldn’t say, my lord,” she replied, her best attempt at a teasing smile gracing her face.

His eyes met hers, suddenly horribly serious. “Perhaps not. But I think you will.”

***

Tywin Lannister, Duke of Casterly Rock, sat behind his large oak desk in the War Office, poring over maps.

The news that was just starting to come out of Russia was heartening: Napoleon had made it to Moscow, but appeared to be considering retreat as winter came on and the Russian offensives grew bolder.

The news from Spain, less so: Lord Wellington, although a man Tywin considered to be generally capable, was again losing ground to the French, and had been forced, with significant casualties, to retreat to Portugal.

When Tywin had sent the first waves of British troops to the Iberian Peninsula four years earlier, he had hoped it might be a way to make inroads into Napoleon’s hold over continental Europe. But they had made such little progress, with such major losses, he wondered now whether he should simply end the entire operation.

He had considered doing just that eighteen months earlier, when Jaime had been lost in the disastrous Battle of Badajoz: in his anger over Jaime’s death, he had written to Wellington, ordering him to withdraw his troops. But Wellington had made a compelling argument, that the Peninsula was ready to fall to the British, and Tywin had allowed the campaign to continue. Now he wondered if that had been foolish.

His mind then did something it hadn’t done, not since Joanna’s death: it wandered to the woman who waited for him at home. He hadn’t intended to wake Sansa that first night - no, he had truly intended to go straight to his own bed, without disturbing her sleep - but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from opening the connecting door, just to see that she was there; and then, when he had caught sight of her, her pale skin and her stunning red hair standing out against the covers, he hadn’t been able to keep from touching her; and then, when she had woken and began to make those irresistible noises, he had needed to have her.

And since then, it was as if his body was no longer his own, the moment he set foot on the stairs.He could not rest until he had climbed into her bed and taken her.At least he had the presence of mind to leave her, after he had sated himself; he wasn’t sure he could stand the shame of being laid so low by his wife, that he couldn’t spend a night away from her.The temptation she presented - to forget about his work and duty and bury himself in her, day and night - was dangerous, and he needed to resist it, if he didn’t want his Duchess to be his ruin.

If he was being honest with himself, he had wanted her since the moment he laid eyes on her. He had heard she was lovely, and he had decided that the alliance with the North would be expedient, but when he saw her - that intoxicating blend of fragile beauty and fire and strength; the way she looked at him, as if at once she feared him and wanted to devour him - he knew that no other lady would do. He would have her, whatever it took. Whatever he had to burn or destroy.

And now that he did have her, a guilty part of him reminded him, he had left her all alone. He had invested far too much time in wooing her, of course, and there was always more work to be done than there were hours in the day; but still he pictured her in an empty dining room; sewing alone in the parlor; and he decided that he should make more of an effort to spend time with his new wife.


	6. Chapter 6

Almost a week after his first visit, Lord Tyrion Lannister called on Lady Sansa with a scandalous invitation.

“If you’re brave enough to visit a gambling hell, then I believe I have some interesting information for you.”

She had told herself, after his first visit, that it was foolish to even contemplate his suggestion; that no lady of quality would allow herself to be compromised in such a way; and yet she knew, instinctively, that should he return, she would acquiesce.She couldn’t allow an opportunity to help her father’s case to go unanswered, whatever the consequences might be.

The plan was simple enough: a half-hour after Lord Tyrion departed, Lady Sansa would leave the townhouse as if she were simply going out walking. (They both knew, after all, that should any of the servants discover where she was going, they would inform the Duke immediately, and that would be the end of that.) She would wear a heavy cloak, which she would use to conceal her distinctive hair. A few blocks from the townhouse, she would get into a carriage Lord Tyrion had sent for her, which would convey her to the Dwarves’ Den.

She felt herself trembling just a bit as she slipped out the front door, her plain cloak pulled up over her hair. She had never disobeyed her parents, or done anything remotely scandalous, and she knew, if any gossips were to catch wind of this, her reputation would be ruined. But then, she was already disgraced for being related to a traitor: what more did she have to lose?

Her husband, a small voice reminded her. He would never forgive her, if he found out.

Well, another part of her answered, then she must be careful.

The carriage was waiting for her precisely where Lord Tyrion had said it would be, and when she stepped inside, a cloaked woman said, with what sounded like a French accent, “You must be my Lord Tyrion’s new stepmother.”

Sansa wasn’t sure how to take the greeting. Was it intended to be flippant or rude? Or was the speaker simply not used to British forms of address?

“You have the advantage over me, then, my lady, since I have no idea who you are.”

The woman laughed and drew back her hood to reveal curly brown hair and a distinctive face. “I’m no lady. I’m Lord Tyrion’s mistress. You may call me Shae.”

Sansa had never met anyone who referred to themselves as someone’s mistress. She wasn’t certain how she was supposed to react. So she responded with a polite, “Pleased to meet you.”

Shae studied her without speaking further, and Sansa looked out the window to avoid her searching gaze. And what she saw out the window interested her: she had never been to the parts of London that might have clubs in them; she was curious where the Dwarves’ Den might be located.

Finally, the carriage shuddered to a stop, and Sansa followed Shae through an unassuming door into her new stepson’s house of ill repute.

Sansa’s eyes widened as she took in the rooms that Shae led her through. They looked, in some ways, exactly as she had pictured - gaudy, intentionally tasteless - and in other ways, completely beyond anything she had imagined. A wild, raucous array of colors and patterns and decorations; curtains covering the walls, floor to ceiling, in a riot of different designs; paintings of anything and everything, including a few so obscene, Sansa found herself blushing; furniture that looked like it must have been gathered from every corner of the globe.

Sansa’s head was spinning by the time they arrived at what was, surprisingly, a fairly normal office, with little by way of decoration. Lord Tyrion sat at a large desk, and stood when she entered.

“Duchess, how good of you to come.May I offer you some tea?”He smirked, clearly aware of the contrast between his polite words and the institution they stood in.“I think you’d be most interested in these ledgers here.”

He motioned for her to sit behind his own desk, and turned to pages where Payne’s and Trant’s names appeared.At first, all Sansa saw were small amounts of money: a few pounds here, another few pounds there.It didn’t seem to add up to much; after all, plenty of gentlemen were known to gamble on occasion.At length, a kitchen boy entered with a tea tray - nothing like what was served in the Duke’s drawing room, when Sansa had guests, but perfectly acceptable - and three of them partook, each of them not quite making eye contact with the others.

As they went through the ledgers, as time passed (although, with no windows in the office, Sansa wasn’t entirely certain how much) something didn’t quite make sense.On some days, both men would arrive with unusual sums, which they would gamble through quickly - and then show up the next month with more.Neither man would have much income, as minor landowners, so where were they getting all of the money from?

She questioned Lord Tyrion about this, and he responded cryptically, “I have my theories.”

Sansa suspected they must have been poring over the records for hours when Shae came back into the room.After she conferred briefly with Lord Tyrion, he remarked, “There’s someone downstairs I think you might be interested in meeting.”

Sansa moved to stand, but Shae shook her head. “Not like that. Patrons have already arrived. You can’t be recognized. Come with me.”

Shae led her into a room that Sansa assumed must be Shae’s own, because it was filled to the brim with colorful dresses, shoes, hats, and wigs of all sorts. She winked at Sansa. “Lord Tyrion has his role to play in the club, and I have mine. Come.”

Sansa didn’t have time to wonder what their roles, in fact, might be, because Shae was pulling out a scandalously low-cut, scarlet gown and a dark wig. She pushed them into Sansa’s arms.

“I’ll help you get into these. Quickly - they’re both at the roulette table, but I don’t know how long they’ll stay. If they lose what they brought in the first few rounds, maybe not long.”

Then it dawned on Sansa: Trant and Payne were downstairs. Shae was going to dress her as a whore, so she could see them for herself, and perhaps gather some information about them.

The woman must be insane. “I can’t wear this, Shae. My husband will murder me if he discovers I’ve disguised myself as a whore. And if anyone else figures out who I am-”

“They won’t,” Shae assured Sansa as she started to pull off the dress she had arrived in. “Men look at certain parts of whores, and usually that doesn’t include their faces.”

Then another thought hit Sansa. She swallowed hard. “But Shae, what if-”

Shae tugged violently at the lacings of Sansa’s gown, pulling it down lower. “I will not allow anyone to touch you. I promise you.”

Sansa nodded. She allowed Shae to maneuver her stays and shift so they barely covered her breasts, and lace up the new gown. Soon, she was looking at herself in the full-length mirror, and seeing a woman she hardly recognized. Shae had done a good job.

The dress bared most of her chest, and the scarlet color was like nothing she’d ever worn before. With the dark wig, she looked like a different person: she looked like a loose woman.

Shae led her back into the public rooms of the club.Sansa moved timidly through areas crowded with gambling tables and already inebriated men, and tried desperately to avoid the eyes of the people she passed, not wanting to attract attention and have someone recognize her.But Shae had been right; none of the men seemed interested in anything except her body; her face seemed to be an afterthought.And even then, most of them were too absorbed in their gambling to notice her at all.

They arrived at the roulette room, and something about their hard looks, their nasty faces, told Sansa immediately who Payne and Trant must be. Shae gave her a subtle pat on the shoulder, and walked to another part of the room to play her role as hostess - close enough to intervene if necessary, but not too close to draw too much attention to Sansa.

Sansa drew closer to the men, slowly enough to not make it seem as if that was what she was doing.

“Just one more spin,” one of the men was saying. “It’s too early to quit.”

“I’m out of coins,” the other responded. “So unless Hollard’s paid you a visit recently, I’m not wagering any more.”

“Hollard’ll be back next week. He always comes the second week of the month. We can spend afford to a little more.”

Wheels began to turn in Sansa’s mind. If the two men were both regularly getting an influx of coin the second week of the month, that would fit what she had seen in the books. But who was this Hollard? And why was he paying them?Was it possible this had something to do with Father’s case?

This was enough information to hand over to Robb, specific enough at least to give them somewhere to start in investigating these two men, and Sansa knew it was time for her to move, to avoid drawing attention by standing anywhere for too long.Shae caught her eye, and the two of them began to slide back in the direction of the owners’ suites.Sansa made her way through billiards rooms, rooms filled with card tables, following closely behind Shae, and they were almost back at the exit when Sansa felt a hand close on her upper arm.

“How much?” a low voice said in her ear, and panic took over.

Shae turned back to find out why Sansa was no longer following her, and the older woman’s eyes went wide when she realized what had happened.

Because the man who had grabbed Sansa was none other than her husband, the Duke. And judging by the way he was looking at her, her disguise had not fooled him in the slightest.

But they had to keep up this charade. Because even if he knew who she was, no one else could be allowed to figure it out. “A crown, sir.” Sansa tried to keep her voice light; spoke quickly so her upper-class accent might be less obvious; tried to guess whether that was anywhere close to what Lord Tyrion’s whores might charge.

By the laughter in Shae’s eyes, Sansa thought perhaps she had guessed wrong.

“Expensive for a whore,” he murmured in her ear, and whether it was for her benefit or for the benefit of onlookers, Sansa couldn’t say. All she knew was he pulled out a silver crown and placed it in her hand, then dragged her into one of the curtained alcoves she now recognized the purpose of. They were designed for assignations such as these.

The moment the curtain was closed, the Duke growled, “I’m never allowing you outside the house again,” and tore at the front of her dress, fully exposing Sansa’s breasts.

And it was then she realized that her husband was no longer doing this to keep up appearances. He was actually going to take her as he might take a whore; and stranger still, she wanted him to.

“Tywin…” she began, trying to explain, trying to decipher his mood, trying to keep this under some semblance of control.

“Shut up, you little whore,” he muttered, somehow managing to sound, at the same time, both furious and utterly calm. “I fully intend to take what I paid for.”

Then his mouth was on hers, demanding, his tongue thrusting between her lips, and she had no choice but to respond. His hands sank lower, and she dimly observed that he was bunching up her skirts, lifting them, baring her lower body to whomever might stumble through the curtain.

In between kisses, he shoved her hand between them, onto the front of his breeches. “Feel what you do to me, minx” he muttered, and she could feel the ridge of his hardness, and the knowledge that she had done that - that she had made the straight-laced Duke so desperate for her that he would take her in a public place, damn the consequences - was intoxicating. She moaned into his mouth as he kissed her again, and slid his manhood out of his breeches.

Then he shoved her hard, up against the wall, and, hoisting her up, his hands digging into her hips, so she was balanced between his thighs and the wall, her feet barely off the ground, he thrust into her. He buried his face in her neck, groaning against her skin, and she grabbed his head, pulling him tighter against her, dragging him closer to her. It was too much; it wasn’t enough; she needed him desperately.

But all too soon, he was shouting his climax into the noisy club, and then he was pulling himself out and tucking himself back into his breeches.

He held her close so he could whisper into her ear, “Cover your hair and your face, and have Tyrion deliver you, in an unmarked carriage, to the Strand. I’ll collect you from there.” Then, without another word, he strode out of the alcove, pushing the curtain back to hide her from view.

Sansa waited a few moments, in which she righted her dark wig and tried unsuccessfully to repair the bodice of the borrowed dress, before she carefully emerged. To her great relief, Shae was still in the room - she had been engaged in other things, but she was clearly waiting for Sansa - and quickly whisked them back to the owners’ suites.

When they were alone, Sansa burst out, “I’m so sorry about the dress; I’ll have it replaced.”

Shae laughed. “I don’t care about the dress, Duchess. I have many others.” She paused, and examined Sansa, a sly expression on her face. “I won’t tell Lord Tyrion about his father’s…preferences…since I don’t think he wants to know - but I must congratulate you.”

That was an odd thing to say, since Sansa was fairly certain Lord Tyrion’s mistress wasn’t referring to her marriage. “Congratulate me? Why?”

“We assumed yours would be nothing but a marriage of convenience, but you’ve clearly ensnared the Duke.”

Sansa shook her head, trying to dispel this nonsense. “I haven’t ensnared anyone. My husband has needs like any man, and that’s the end of it. He won’t even take time away from his work to dine with me.”

Shae raised an eyebrow.“And yet, he did take time to come find his wife at a gambling den.”She lifted a hand, to silence the protest that was about to spill out of Sansa’s mouth.“Yes, yes, of course, he was just protecting his property, but he could have sent a trusted man to find you instead of coming himself.I think that says a great deal about how the Duke feels about you.Besides,” she added, the smirk creeping back onto her face, “No man so thoroughly mauls his wife’s attire unless she’s completely bewitched him.”

The words were out of Sansa’s mouth before she could recall them.“He called me a ‘little whore.’That doesn’t sound like what a husband calls a wife who’s bewitched him.”

Shae threw her head back and laughed then, as if Sansa had said something truly absurd. “Dear girl, you really are an innocent. Your husband wants you, and seeing you in that dress tonight made him want you even more.”

Could it really be that simple?But then, why did he avoid her when they weren’t in bed?Why did he still treat her so callously?

Sansa examined Shae, this woman who was insultingly familiar (a fact Sansa was now surprised to find she didn’t mind), who seemed so knowledgeable about men. Was it possible that Shae was right - that her husband wanted her as something other than a broodmare?If tonight’s encounter did mean that her husband desired her, then Sansa had a great deal still to learn about the mysterious Duke of Casterly Rock.

***

Sansa only had to walk a few minutes down the Strand before the Duke’s carriage pulled up beside her and the footman helped her in.

The Duke himself wasn’t home when she got there - nor did she really expect him to be - but she was surprised to hear the connecting door creak open just as she dismissed her maids to finish preparing for bed.

She watched him approach in the mirror as she sat at her vanity. He stopped when he was only a few feet away from her. The hunger that she had seen in his eyes earlier that day was gone, replaced entirely by anger.

HIs voice was utterly calm when he finally spoke, and that, she thought, was almost worse than if he’d yelled. “This afternoon, Charlie came to my office to inform me that he believed that my wife was visiting a brothel. Imagine my surprise when I discovered he was correct.”

She met his gaze in the mirror, but she didn’t turn to look at him. “Your son told me that he had information on my father’s case.”

She could almost hear him gritting his teeth. “Did I not tell you I would be taking care of your father’s case? Do you not trust your husband to protect what’s mine, including my father-in-law?”

“I couldn’t ignore information I thought might help him.”

“And did it not occur to you that being spotted in a brothel might damage your father’s case further by destroying your reputation and, by extension, mine?”

“I took precautions.”

He scoffed. “Yes. A disguise. I noticed. But that’s not what gave you away - it’s the way you carry yourself. You walk like a noblewoman. No wig or dress could conceal that.”

Sansa felt her cheeks heat. She really was an innocent, like Shae had said. The thought hadn’t even occurred to her.

He approached her then, and closed his fingers around her shoulders possessively.His eyes never left hers in the mirror.“Sansa,” he murmured, “if you ever do something so foolish again, do not doubt that I will leave you to deal with the consequences on your own.”

“And leave your title vulnerable to scandal?” She smirked, knowing she now had the upper hand.“No, Duke, I think not.”

She could feel his hands tighten on her shoulders, see his face contract with fury.But she would not give him the satisfaction of bowing to his anger.He would not hit her - he was not the sort of man to do that, she knew that instinctively - and he had already married her and guaranteed his involvement in her father’s case, a pledge that his debt-obsessed mind would never renege on.No, there was nothing Tywin Lannister could do to harm her more than he already had.

“Sansa Lannister,” he growled, and she felt her body heat up when he attached his name to her own, a reminder of just how much he owned her, “you are an infuriating woman.”

Apparently, he decided that there was no point in discussing the subject further, because his lips found hers, and he slid his arms under her, lifting her up and carrying her to the bed.

He took her that night more with more force than he had ever done before. It was as if a layer of his control - that layer she had once been curious to see removed - had been stripped away, leaving only desire and hunger. His hands were ravenous as they scoured over her skin, his mouth devouring, his manhood, when he thrust it into her, hard and unrelenting.

And while she knew that a well-bred woman should stop him, she couldn’t; she only found herself encouraging him further, pushing his head down onto her, whimpering and moaning when he touched her.

“Mine,” she realized he was saying as he pounded into her, “foolish girl, you’re mine.”

And she, in response, found herself replying, “Yours, Tywin, yours.”

Then he did something he had never done before: he shoved his hand between their two bodies, and began to rub his thumb over a place just above where their bodies were joined. And the feeling it created when he did only made her shake and moan more wildly around him.

“Come for me, Sansa,” he was growling, and she had no idea what he wanted her to do, until he said, “Let go,” and suddenly, she knew what he intended - and realized that she, too wanted it desperately.

“Please, Tywin,” she begged, and he rubbed his thumb against her even faster and harder as he continued to thrust into her, creating an incredible feeling that finally burst, even as she felt him reaching his own climax, right behind her.

For minutes after he finished inside her, Sansa’s bones felt like jelly.She let her husband nuzzle against her neck, oddly grateful that he hadn’t immediately left, the way he usually did.The feeling of his mouth pressing against her, promising more of this to come, left her skin warm and wanting in its wake.

“My fool of a wife,” he muttered, caressing her face with a hand that was suddenly soft, in contrast to his earlier touches. “So beautiful, and yet so frustrating.”

She smiled at that.Basking in the glow of irrefutable evidence of his desire for her, she could almost imagine that he actually cared for her; that he loved her, even.She could imagine that he respected her for her mind, instead of seeing only her breeding potential.“I won’t give up, you know,” she whispered.“I know you intend to help my father, Tywin, and I am grateful, but I can’t just sit back and do nothing while he suffers in prison.”

He turned over then, so he lay on his back and she lay against his chest. It felt far more satisfying that it should have been, especially when he began to run his hand through her loose hair. “I thought your mother raised you to be a proper and submissive wife.”

Sansa yawned. “She did. But she also raised me with strong morals, and to never be afraid of doing difficult work myself.”

“I highly doubt your mother was thinking of having you dress up as a whore, when she taught you the value of hard work.”

She turned so she could look at him directly. His eyes were hooded, and she could see little of his expression. “I don’t know, Your Grace - you seemed to enjoy seeing me.”

She felt him stir under her, and he growled. “No man could have ignored the way you looked tonight.”

A rush of power ran through her. She had brought her powerful husband to his knees, if only for a little while.

Then her thoughts turned to the actual information she had learned through her amateur spying. Should she share it with her husband, as well as with Robb? She had no reason to believe the Duke wouldn’t pursue this with the same degree of devotion he seemed to dedicate to everything.

“Payne and Trant mentioned a man named Hollard.Apparently he’s lending them money in rather large amounts.”

He stirred beneath her.“Hm.Interesting.It’s not a name I recognize, but I’ll look into it.” His voice was calm, betraying none of his earlier anger.How quickly he could slide in and out of emotions, as they suited him.

Minutes passed, and he made no move to rise.Was he going to stay in her bed tonight? Sansa wondered, hope fluttering uncomfortable and unacknowledged in her chest.She found herself afraid to move, afraid to bring to her husband’s attention the fact that he hadn’t left her yet. 

He stirred beneath her, wrapping his arm more firmly about her shoulders as she nuzzled into his shoulder.“Sleep, Sansa,” he murmured, and she found herself fully willing to obey him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter! Littlefinger is his own warning.

Finding his wife at Lord Tyrion’s club seemed to change something in the Duke. Where before, he had held himself aloof from her, even during his nightly visits, now it seemed that he couldn’t get enough of her.

The first night he spent in her bed, she woke what must have been hours before dawn to the feeling of her husband’s fingers on that same place, at the juncture of her thighs, that had given her so much pleasure before, as his other hand cupped her breast. She leaned back against him, relishing the feeling of his manhood pressing against her bottom.

“Sansa,” he growled from behind her, “I need you. I’m going to take you again,” and she moaned in response, feeling no need to reply with words, pressing into him as he lifted her shift.

There was something about this manner of coupling - begun and ended in the dark, both of them still groggy with sleep, their movements languid, the murmuring of their voices the only sounds in the quiet bedroom - that felt like a fundamental shift. A shift in Sansa herself, perhaps, more than anything else: the recognition that this marriage might have the potential to become something more than a duty, something closer to what she had always imagined.

But she felt it in him, too: the way he touched her, almost reverently; the way he murmured her name; the way he gripped her hands, as if he feared letting her go. She didn’t know how he regarded her, how he regarded whatever it was that was building between them, but it was something beyond simple husbandly duty - of that she was certain.

He was gone from her bed when she woke in the morning, but midway through her bath, she heard the sound of the connecting door opening. She felt the hands of the maidservant who had been washing her hair move away from her, and after a moment, strong, masculine hands replaced them. She leaned into her husband’s touch.

The Duke didn’t speak as he rubbed oils into her long hair, performing the task slowly and methodically, as if he really were one of her attendants. She wondered if he had done this for his first wife, the blond-haired beauty whose miniature he still kept on the desk in his study. (Sansa had seen it the few times she had gone in there to find the household expense accounts for her morning meetings with the housekeeper. Her eyes had been drawn to it against her own volition, although whether it was because of the woman’s haunted expression or the place of honor the unassuming little portrait occupied, she couldn’t say).

Eventually, he finished with her hair, and his hands moved down to her breasts, her stomach. She felt heat build in her lower body when she heard the sound of fabric falling to the floor, and the next thing she knew, he was stepping into the tub to join her. He pulled her on top of him, sliding his lips down the column of her neck.

There was something arresting about actually being on top of her husband; although he retained control, even from below, she was actually above him; her head reached higher than his; she could push him back with her hands, and choose when and how she took him.

But then a more rational part of her cut in: her husband had taken her twice last night. Surely it was wanton, obscene, to allow him this liberty so often?

He stopped in his ministrations to mutter, “There’s nothing wrong with a wife enjoying her husband’s touch, Sansa.”

His ability to respond to precisely what was on her mind truly was uncanny.She wondered if this was something else he had carried over from his first marriage; whether he had learned to read her, that first wife he had loved so desperately that her death had destroyed him; and now simply applied those lessons to Sansa’s mind, with similar success.That thought put a damper on her enthusiasm, until he took a nipple between his teeth and gently pulled at it, causing all other thoughts to scatter in the wake of the tremors his mouth created in her body.

Drunk on the feeling of his mouth, intoxicated by the power he had granted her, in settling her on top of him, she moved her hands to cup his face. She pulled him up from where he nipped at her breasts, and kissed him full on the mouth, allowing her tongue to explore him. She had never kissed him, she realized; it was always he who led each of their encounters. She dragged a hand down his chest, enjoying the firm feel of it, as she pulled him closer with her other hand around his neck.

“Sansa,” he groaned, one of his hands gripping her backside as the other tangled in her hair. Apparently he was not at all upset to have his plans interrupted.

From this position, could she…? Sansa lifted herself experimentally, rubbing her sensitive parts against his manhood, letting the warm water caress her as she moved.

“Sansa,” he repeated, his voice louder and more forceful as he squeezed her tighter against him, “stop teasing and ride me.”

…Ride him? The words didn’t make sense at first, until she realized what he wanted, and suddenly, her whole body was on fire. A little unsure, she rose up above him, then sank down slowly, letting every inch of his length slide into her, feeling it fill her. This was an entirely different sensation from when he was above her, and she found herself enjoying it quite a lot.

“Tywin,” she murmured, her lips on his neck, “this is…”

“Perfect,” he finished, again seizing her lips with his own. And it was, she thought.

Then he slid a hand between them, the way he had done the night before, and suddenly a wave of pleasure rose up inside her, reaching its peak just as he began to thrust furiously up into her. His hands gripping her hard, he shouted out his pleasure, and then pulled her down against his chest.

They stayed for a while like that: arms tangled around each other, his manhood softening inside her as she slumped against him, her head tucked beneath his chin.

She looked up at him, and thought he looked so vulnerable like this: his face open, looking almost young; almost handsome. She didn’t want to disturb the moment, but after last night, she needed to know.

“Tywin?”

“Hmm?” He stirred, his hand resting on the back of her head now, looking down at her, his gaze soft.

“What do you have, that will help my father?” She assumed there was a reason he hadn’t told her when they married, but if he wanted her to stop working independently of him, then he needed to share at least some of what he knew.

He was silent for a long moment, although his hands continued to stroke her hair and her back. He was deliberating, she could see; deciding what to tell her. Perhaps he was weighing the same things she had.

Finally, he spoke. “You know of the War Office documents found in your father’s study?”

She nodded - of course she knew.

How could she forget that horrible day when bailiffs had arrived at the Stark townhouse, the morning after a ball hosted by her aunt, the Duchess of the Vale, when Sansa had danced with Lord Harry Hardyng and thought that perhaps he just might be her fairy-tale prince? How could she forget the way that dream had been thrown back in her face when half of the _ton_ , including Lord Hardyng himself, had abandoned the Stark family in the wake of her father’s arrest?

How could she forget the sound those men’s muddy boots made on the polished parquet as they marched upstairs to her father’s study?

How could she forget the sight of her father, dragged outside in irons like a common criminal?

She felt him press his lips to her temple. Perhaps that was his version of attempting to comfort her. “They’re fake. Varys managed to get a look at them, and examined the seal, the contents, and they’re very good imitations, to be sure, but fake nonetheless.”

Sansa felt her stomach drop. “Who?” she whispered, feeling the otherwise silent room consume the sound of her voice. “Who would have done it?”

Sansa’s head rose along with Tywin’s chest as he sighed. “That’s what Varys still doesn’t know. It was someone with access to information that is carefully guarded at the War Office, and someone with access to the Stark household. The list of people who might responsible isn’t long, but it certainly is formidable.”

The Duke of Casterly Rock had just called her father’s enemies - whoever they were - formidable.

Up until that moment, Sansa realized, she had simply trusted that, with the Duke on their side, Father would be safe. Yes, she had still worried; she had sought out information at the Dwarves’ Den, but there was a part of her that had been assuming that it would turn out in the end. How could it not?

But with his admission, it suddenly occurred to Sansa that there was no reason to believe that everything would turn out alright at all. In fact, the possibility that things would go horrifically wrong was terrifyingly real.

She tightened her arms around him, as if his mere physical presence might assuage the fears that now rampaged through her, unchecked.

***

The receipts from the night before were lower than Tyrion had hoped. He counted the stacks of coins once more, hoping he had made some mistake in the counting, knowing he had not. This was what revenues from the Dwarves’ Den had looked like for the last few weeks, and he had no reason to believe a solution would simply present itself; that their fiscal woes would magically resolve themselves without requiring intervention from the owners.

“Would you care to explain,” growled a voice from the doorway, “why you thought it was a good idea to bring my wife to a brothel?”

How the devil had the Duke gotten in? He needed to have a talk with the kitchen boys who manned the doors during the day. Tyrion stood and make a mocking bow. “Father. What an honor to have you grace my humble establishment with your authoritative presence.”

“Don't be asinine, Tyrion. I want you to stay away from my wife.”

He studied his father’s expression. The Duke looked agitated, furious even; something had disturbed his usual iron control over his emotions. Tywin Lannister’s preoccupation with honor would explain some of it - but there seemed to be something else there, too.

Tyrion would readily admit that perhaps his sense of self-preservation was not at its strongest when it came to his father. “But Father,” he drawled, “you can’t expect me to cut off all ties with my dear stepmother, can you?”

“That’s precisely what I expect you to do.”

He sighed. “I’ll admit that I was curious to see if your wife would really go through with it - and I must offer my congratulations, you seem to have found yourself a tough woman for wife, perhaps the only woman tough enough to stand up to you. But I might also point out that I was able to offer her information you couldn’t get for her.”

“I am personally in charge of the Duke of Winterfell’s defense, and I assure you that I have it entirely under control,” he asserted, just a little bit too loudly.

“Do you?” Tyrion examined his father. The man was always confident and self-assured, but how certain was he that he could save Ned Stark? Tyrion hadn’t known Sansa for long, but he knew she would be devastated if they failed to save her father - and he already knew that he wanted to prevent that in any way possible.

There was no response from the Duke, and after a while Tyrion spoke again into the silence. “I promise I will not needlessly put your wife’s reputation at risk again. But if I have information I think might help, then I will not hesitate to approach her with it.”

He paused, debating whether he should say his next piece; but then again, his father already hated him; what more did he have to lose? “I also think, if you choose to cut her off from a possible avenue of companionship, then you should be willing to provide a replacement. Your wife’s lonely, Father; that’s clear to anyone who's paying attention. She needs more than dresses and hair ribbons to be happy.”

“She doesn’t need your companionship,” Tywin muttered.His tone was not the sharp rebuke Tyrion had expected, which meant that the words had landed.Good.

Tyrion shrugged, and to his surprise, the Duke turned and left. Perhaps he had some urgent meeting at the War Office or Parliament.

It wasn’t until after the Duke had departed that Tyrion realized that, while their interaction could never be called friendly, it was also surprisingly civil; the Duke had refrained from insulting Tyrion for the entire conversation. The Stark girl was clearly having an effect on him, whether the old Duke realized it or not.

***

Two days after Sansa’s visit to the Dwarves’ Den, she received an unusual visitor.

While Lord Varys had appeared reasonably comfortable in the Starks’ drawing room, he looked utterly out of place in the Duke’s cold rooms, his unusual, Eastern-style dress clashing terribly with the fiercely traditional furnishings.

“Lord Varys,” she asked politely, after she had called for tea, “as I’m sure you’re well aware my husband is currently at the War Office, I must assume you called for me. What can I assist you with?”

He examined her for a long moment before he spoke - presumably adding observations to whatever running mental list he used to keep track of details about the people he spied on - and she wondered what he saw. Did he think she was unhappy in this marriage he had helped push her into?

…Was she unhappy?

Finally he spoke. “Your husband informed me that you came by some information pertaining to your father’s case, and he asked me to consult with you about it.”

At first, Sansa was shocked. Her husband really trusted this man enough to inform him that his wife had visited a gambling hell? And yet, she knew that Varys dealt in secrets, and he presumably knew how to keep one when it was in his interest. Which she certainly hoped this one was. After all, the man wasn’t an idiot; he knew what the Duke could do to him, should Varys betray his trust.

So she told him the story, leaving out nothing except the interlude with her husband. At the end, the spy shook his head. “I don’t know this Hollard, but I’ll have my sources look into him.” He paused. “I’ve also heard that Lord Baelish has taken an interest in you.”

She froze. How did Varys know about that? Clearly he was a good spy, but the idea that he might have people trailing her - or even Lord Baelish - was unsettling.

She tried to infuse her voice with confidence, a flippant disregard. “He came upon me while I was out riding the other day. He made some rather cryptic comments before I was able to extract myself. But I don’t put much store by them.”

Varys looked at her seriously. “Perhaps you should. Baelish is a dangerous man, although he may not look it, and I worry about his focus on you. Should he approach you again, I’d like you to keep me informed of it.”

You mean, keep the Duke informed, Sansa thought bitterly. While Lord Varys’ contributions were often helpful, she knew precisely where his loyalties lay, and it wasn’t with her.

***

The first public event the Duke and Duchess of Casterly Rock were set to attend as a married couple was, somewhat predictably, another ball thrown by the Duke’s daughter.

Sansa received the invitation several days after her return from Lord Tyrion’s gambling hell - a period in which the Duke blew hot and cold, unpredictably shifting between uncontrolled desire and distance; between bedding her several times one night and leaving her immediately after copulation the next. She rarely found him in her bed when she woke in the morning, but often when she stirred in the middle of the night, he would be beside her, his strong arms enveloping her in a warm embrace that neither of them examined too closely during the daylight hours.

His inconsistent behavior extended beyond their bed: he would be home for dinner a few times in a week, but he still worked long hours and often came to her bed long after she had retired. He had yet to join her for a morning ride, or church, or shopping on Bond Street - all of those activities married couples were supposed to do together - so she wasn't sure what he would say to the prospect of a ball. They had been married for long enough that they were due to make an appearance in society, but she had no reason to think he might care about that sort of thing.

To her surprise, when she brought it up the following morning at breakfast, he simply grunted his approval and returned to his papers.

Which is how Sansa found herself once more entering the Baratheon mansion on the Duke’s arm; except now she entered the party as his wife.Around her neck lay the jewels he had gifted her this evening when he entered her chamber after the maidservants had finished dressing her in another of her own creations.She could still feel his fingers fixing the clasp in place, then running over her neck as he admired the piece.It was a family heirloom, he had said, that had been delivered from the vault in their solicitors’ office specifically for this occasion.The jewels were blood-red, encased in pure gold - a clear statement of ownership.And somehow, she found she didn’t mind being claimed publicly by her possessive, powerful husband - in fact, the idea sent a bit of a thrill through her.

Their arrival felt like a strange rehashing of the previous ball they had attended here, down to the line of carriages in the drive, the hush in the crowd when they were announced at the top of the stairs, and Cersei accosting them when they reached the bottom.

“Father,” the Duchess of Storm’s End and King’s Landing exclaimed, “what a delight to see you here - and on such an important night, too!”Cersei’s gaze traveled to Sansa’s, and Sansa felt her stomach flip.Suddenly she felt an almost unwavering certainty that this had something to do with Cersei’s invitation to tea a few weeks before, and Joffrey’s smug, knowing smile that day.What did they intend to announce tonight?

But Cersei said nothing more on the subject, and Sansa found herself borne further into the crowd, which was full of people looking curiously at the Duke of Casterly Rock and his new wife - presumably desperate to know whether the marriage was the love match they had attempted to portray it as, or whether there was something darker at play.

Sansa moved forward, her hand on the Duke’s elbow, until he suddenly stopped, his eye caught by someone ahead of them. “Sansa darling,” he murmured in her ear, and despite herself, she felt her heart speed up at the endearment - his tone was flat, and she knew it meant nothing, but still - “It appears that Lord Stannis is back from the Americas, and I would like to speak with him about the prosecution of the war there. Shall I escort you to Lady Margaery?”

She did not want to be the sort of wife who clung to her husband; who prevented him from having necessary conversations. So she shook her head and patted his arm gently. “No, husband, I’m sure I’ll find her on my own. I don’t want to keep you from Lord Stannis.”

He looked at her for a moment, as if to ascertain her sincerity, then nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

Sansa moved to the side of the room so she could move around the perimeter and hopefully spot the Tyrells - likely to be her only close acquaintances in attendance tonight - from the side of the room. They usually weren’t difficult to locate, given how loud and raucous they were.

But for some reason - the ballroom was too crowded, or perhaps the Highgarden group hadn’t arrived yet - Sansa couldn’t find them in the sea of people meandering here and there, and soon, she had even lost sight of her husband, tall as he was. She took a glass of punch from a passing footman and tried her best not to look vulnerable as the party went on around her.

“Your Grace.” The words were hot on the back of Sansa’s neck, and she froze, unwilling to give Lord Baelish the satisfaction of turning around. She hadn’t seen him since he had found her out riding a few weeks before, but she hadn’t dared to hope that he might have disappeared for good.

He continued, “I believe we are to be presented with some exciting news quite shortly.”

She didn’t respond. There was no response she could give that wouldn’t gratify him unnecessarily.

Then, as if he had perfectly timed his arrival (and for all Sansa knew, he had), the voice of the master of ceremonies rang out over the crowd, “The Duke and the Dowager Duchess of Highgarden, with Lord Loras Tyrell and Lady Margaery Tyrell.” Sansa felt her shoulders sag in relief: the stairs weren’t that far from where she was standing; she could go up to them as soon as they made it into the ballroom.

But then she saw Cersei and Joffrey maneuvering toward the Tyrells, and she realized at once that she was not safe at all. No, quite the contrary.

She sank back against the wall, feeling Lord Baelish follow her, his arm uncomfortably close to her waist - hovering over it, not quite touching it, but not leaving quite enough space to be proper, either.

Cersei was pulling her already drunk husband up onto the stairs and whispering to him as he waved her away dismissively. And suddenly, Sansa knew exactly what the news was. She felt sick to her stomach.

“No,” she whispered, not caring that Lord Baelish was still within hearing range - hoping, perhaps, that he might have another answer. “They can’t have agreed to this. Not with him.”

“Oh, but they did, Your Grace,” Lord Baelish murmured, even closer this time, as Sansa, in mute horror, watched what was taking place on the stairs. Lord Joffrey stepping forward, a crude grin on his face. Taking Lady Margaery’s hand. The Duke of Storm’s End and King’s Landing raising his glass to the Duke of Highgarden, as the Dowager Duchess and Lord Loras looked on, expressions of disgust barely disguised on their faces.

“And would you like to know why Lady Margaery agreed?” Lord Baelish’s hand actually grasped Sansa’s waist. Lightly, but still wildly inappropriate for a man who was not her husband.

She could tell him to let her go, and perhaps he would heed her - but then she would likely never know why her dear friend was now betrothed to a louse of a man. Lady Margaery hadn’t said anything about the engagement the last time they had tea, and Sansa knew that, if she hadn’t already discussed it, then she would never reveal her reasons. And if Sansa didn’t know what the Baratheons had on the Tyrells, then she could never help her friend.

So she endured Lord Baelish’s touch, and nodded mutely.

“Lord Joffrey’s mother is in possession of some rather incriminating information about Lord Loras. Letters, I believe.” Lord Baelish’s other hand came to rest on Sansa’s shoulder. She froze, wanting his hand off of her, but needing him to continue talking.

“Treachery? Against the Crown?” Perhaps this was connected to Father’s case?

Lord Baelish chuckled. “No, Lady Sansa. Lord Loras has been romantically linked with someone he shouldn’t have been, for several years now.”

Sansa couldn’t help her sharp intake of breath at the news. Was that why he had been so reluctant to pursue her, even with Margaery’s encouragement? Because he was in love with another woman?

But why would the woman he chose be objectionable? Was she so lowborn, that their romance would create a scandal even the Tyrells couldn’t recover from?

Sansa took a deep breath, struggling to regain her composure so she could extract the information she needed from Lord Baelish. “She must be beautiful, to have drawn the attention of a man such as Lord Loras.”

Lord Baelish laughed, and Sansa found the sound both chilling and utterly unpleasant. At the same time, he leaned in closer, pressing his shoulder against her upper back. “The letters the Duchess of Storm’s End and King’s Landing found were addressed to Lord Renly Baratheon.”

Sansa did turn then, to look at Lord Baelish and try to understand his insinuation. Lord Renly Baratheon wasn’t…couldn’t be… Oh.

“You mean to say…” she began, working this through, trying to make sense of the shocking news, “you mean to say that Lord Loras is in love with-”

Lord Baelish chuckled again and silenced her by pressing a palm against her mouth - a gesture that was much too intimate for this setting, much too intimate for two people who were not related. “Yes, Sansa, you needn’t crow it to the whole ballroom. Your stepdaughter” - and she could almost hear the sneer in his voice - “came across the information, and offered the Tyrells a deal: she wouldn’t release it, if they agreed to give Margaery to Joffrey.”

Sansa shook her head, still desperate to some make sense of this. Lady Margaery was agreeing to marry someone as unpleasant as Lord Joffrey because her family was being blackmailed? “But that doesn’t… why would they…”

Her thoughts were interrupted when Lord Baelish pulled away from her and bowed his head. “Your Grace.”

She knew it was her husband, even before she turned, and she was almost afraid to look up at him to determine whether the anger that would most certainly be in his eyes would be directed more prominently toward the slimy baron, or toward herself.

To her relief, when she did look up, it appeared that most of the Duke’s fury was directed at Lord Baelish, if the direction he was glaring in was any indication. “Lord Baelish, kindly leave my wife alone.”

He smirked. “I had no intention of taking liberties, Your Grace. I merely found your Duchess wandering alone and thought to escort her back to your side.”

Sansa couldn’t believe anyone present would be convinced by that, but her husband seemed content enough to let it drop for the moment, as she took his elbow and he led her farther from the entrance, where the Baratheons and the Tyrells were still dealing with crowds of well-wishers. Sansa knew she should go over there soon, but she couldn’t bear to put on a false face right now, not even for the sake of her friend. Perhaps her husband, unfeeling as he often was, understood that.

“If that disgusting man ever touches you again, I swear I’ll kill him.” The Duke’s voice was low, but Sansa had no doubt of the sincerity of his words.She moved closer to him so they could speak without being overhead.

“He is disgusting, I agree. But he also has his uses, it seems. He told me what the Baratheons have over the Tyrells.”

The Duke sighed. “That’s an open secret. I’m surprised the Tyrells believe they can keep it quiet simply by handing off their daughter.”

She gaped at him. He knew about Lord Loras and Lord Renly?

He seemed to sense her confusion. “Sansa, there are many open secrets in the _ton_ that don’t make their way into the ladies’ gossip circles.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, and tugged her into an alcove where they might have a reasonable expectation of privacy, at least for a few minutes.

She could feel the moment he let go of his cold exterior - when he cupped her face in his and pressed a kiss to her forehead, then held her against himself, as if he needed to reassure himself that she was here; that she was his.

“I’m afraid for Margaery,” Sansa whispered, the fact that she couldn’t see his face making her bolder.

He stroked her hair gently, avoiding the delicate curls her maidservants had put in earlier that evening. “Her family has enough influence to protect her. They’ll keep her from harm.”

She shook her head against his chest. “But she’s marrying such an awful man! What will the rest of her life be like, tethered to him?”

He chuckled, and she could feel it as his chest rose. “Perhaps she might have said that about you, too.”

She understood why he said it, but didn’t he know? “You’re nothing like Joffrey.” She didn’t look at him, even as she spoke into his chest. “You might be a cold-hearted man, but you’re not cruel and petty and stupid like he is.”

This time he laughed in earnest. “I’m glad to know you think so highly of me, Sansa.”

She smirked in response as she turned to look up at him. “What is a powerful man, without a wife to prevent him from growing too arrogant?”

It was the first moment of real levity they had shared since their wedding, Sansa thought, at least outside the bedroom. She found her face tipping up to his, his hands returning to her jaw to bring her closer to him, and she wanted him to kiss her, here in this secluded corner of an otherwise crowded hall.

But before his lips could descend to hers, their refuge was broken by an announcement that cut through the sudden silence in the ballroom.

“Lady Daenerys Targaryen, Duchess of King’s Landing.”

It wasn’t the voice of the master of ceremonies. It was a woman’s voice.

Sansa and the Duke both moved out of the alcove and back into the main part of the ballroom so they could see what was happening at the entrance.

A diminutive, yet somehow also commanding, woman with silvery blond hair stood at the top of the steps, her hand on the arm of a taller man in uniform - a man who had clearly seen combat. A dark-skinned, curly-haired woman stood beside them - the woman who must have announced them.

Suddenly, Sansa recognized the woman and the man. She had seen them at the Academy, the day the Duke had kissed her for the first time.

And now this woman claimed to be a Targaryen, a member of the family that was supposed to have been wiped out by smallpox almost two decades before? Not only that, but she had decided to make her claim to the Baratheons’ title and lands here, at their own party?

And how had this woman managed to slip through society for weeks, unnoticed until now?

The entire ballroom had gone still, everyone waiting for what would happen next. Would the Duke or Duchess of Storm’s End and King’s Landing come up and address what was tantamount to a declaration of war? Would the woman descend the steps and join the assembly?

The Duke and Duchess in question weren’t far from the steps, still accepting congratulations for their son’s engagement, and Sansa could see them move toward the small group at the top of the stairs, the rage in both of their expressions clear all the way across the room.

And that was when the young woman who claimed the dukedom spoke, her voice clear and loud over the silence in the room. “I have no intention of joining your party. I simply come to inform those gathered here that I am the rightful heir to a dukedom that was stolen from me by the hosts of this very event. Although they did not wield the knives themselves, they murdered my family, and they attempted to murder me. But I survived, and I have no intention of giving in, until I have gotten back what is rightfully mine.”

A movement in the shadows on the other side of the ballroom caught Sansa’s attention. The Duke followed her gaze. “You didn’t think,” he murmured in her ear, “that my daughter would simply allow this to go on, unchallenged?”

She realized the shape belonged to an enormous man who was making his way around the edge of the ballroom toward the stairs, his face still shrouded in darkness.

Then, before the man could reach them, the trio turned and walked out the way they had come, leaving a frustrated Cersei speechless before the stairs.

“Duke?” Sansa asked, wondering what her husband would make of this declaration of war against his daughter and son-in-law.

“Not here,” he murmured in her ear, as he led her back into the alcove, where they might escape notice for a while. “Leaving the party now would be tantamount to legitimizing that girl’s claims, but we’ll go as soon as we can accomplish it discreetly.”

Sansa nodded, and waited, watching as the groups of people returned from stunned little clumps speaking in whispers to a more ordinary configuration, with groups talking and dancing again. When the volume of talk and music in the room returned to the level it had been at before the Targaryen girl’s appearance, the Duke took Sansa’s hand again and led her out into the garden, and from there toward the drive where the carriages waited.

He handed her up into the ducal carriage, then rapped on the roof.

As soon as the carriage began to move, Sansa looked at him squarely and asked, “Who is she? Is there any truth to what she said?”

The Duke sighed and looked away, out the window of the carriage as if the answer to this riddle might be found on the cold London streets. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll need Varys to investigate before we take an official position.”

An official position. Sansa hadn’t considered that: as father-in-law of the Duchess in question, the Duke would be expected to make some sort of statement, at least in the circles of the _ton_ , if not in a court of law. And she would need to understand that position, so she could support it. That would be her duty as his wife, and as Duchess of Casterly Rock.

Then, something shifted in the Duke’s demeanor. He turned back toward Sansa; his gaze shifted to hers, pinning her. He had only to motion to her, for Sansa to rise and find herself pulled into his lap and his hands and mouth all over her.

“And now,” he muttered between kisses, “I’d rather think no more of the Targaryen girl for tonight.”

***

Tywin was not pleased when he read Varys’ report the next day. The little Targaryen bitch had been right under their noses for months, staying low and avoiding notice as her agents worked to dismantle the Baratheons’ trading empire.

Not that that was especially difficult: given how much money they spent, they were practically handing themselves over on a silver plate.

There was nothing in the report to suggest the girl was an imposter. She had certainly looked like the spitting image of her dead father. Varys’ sources held that she had been hiding out in St Petersburg until about six months ago, when she had embarked on her crusade to win back her title.

It wouldn’t be easy - Cersei certainly wouldn’t give up without a fight - but he did not want to find himself on the losing side of a battle like this.The Lannister name was everything to him, of course, but Cersei had given up her claim to his protection when she became a Baratheon.He wouldn’t take a public position until one side emerged as the stronger one.

His thoughts went to Sansa then, as they often did these days. The image of her in that dress, her gorgeous breasts nearly exposed to all those other men in the club, had driven him close to madness several times in the last fortnight. He felt a driving need to keep her by his side at all times, to keep her away from everyone else, which had led to his staying in her bed far longer and more often than he cared to admit.

He had tried to pull himself back; to leave before she woke, even if he couldn’t drag himself from her bed after they made love (because that’s what it was now, as painful as it was to admit that he wanted desperately to make love to a woman who was not Joanna).He had tried to keep his distance, and yet every time he thought he had succeeded, he would see her in the club; his mind would cycle through all the moments she had driven him mad with lust, responding to his touches with the sort of enthusiasm one would never expect from a well-bred girl married for duty, not love.

And then, too, he would imagine his new wife riding with Lord Baelish, her mouth inevitably curled up in a smile whenever he pictured it, making him want to bash the Chancellor’s head in like a savage.

Rationally, he knew that Sansa was unlikely to betray him. While she had shown a penchant for pursuing spontaneous and foolhardy ideas, she was also devoted to her family, and she must know that cuckolding him would be disastrous for her father’s defense.

And yet, when Varys had informed him that Sansa had been spotted with Littlefinger in the park weeks before, when he saw that leech with his wife yesterday at the ball, he felt his blood boil. He had wanted to confront her about it, unleash his jealous fury on her, and it was only Varys’ advice that had stopped him. Usually Tywin’s chief intelligence officer refrained from commenting on the Duke’s personal life, but Varys clearly had a great deal of affection for Sansa, which made Tywin heed the man’s advice: that if he wanted his wife to trust him, then he needed to show that he himself trusted her.

But he hadn’t been able to stop himself from mentioning it as she lay in his arms the night of the ball. “Sansa,” he had murmured into her hair, “I don’t like the interest Littlefinger seems to have taken in you.”

She had sighed in response. “Nor do I, Tywin, but there isn’t much I can do to get rid of him, since he seems determined to dog my steps.”

He had growled at the thought of the despicable man following his wife.

Then, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking (and perhaps, he thought, she did) she had cuddled closer to him and said, “Lord Baelish is a nuisance, Tywin, but you know my loyalties lie with you.”

Tywin Lannister was not a fool. He knew precisely why his wife had married him. He knew that she had no love for him; that marriage was a duty to her, nothing more. And yet, he couldn’t help but hope that she meant it. That she was his; not just legally, not just in body, but also in soul.

***

Sansa called at the Tyrells’ townhouse the morning after the ball, and was turned away, told that Lady Margaery was indisposed and unable to receive visitors. She walked home - for that was how she was finally beginning to think of it - a sick feeling building in his chest, a feeling that only got stronger as she was turned away the next several times she called, and Margaery never responded to the notes she left. Apparently engagement to Joffrey had caused Margaery, her dynamic, vivacious friend, to withdraw from the world entirely.

So Sansa had focused her efforts on spending time with the Baratheon girls instead. She didn’t want to imagine how much more difficult the reappearance of a Targaryen must be making life in their respective households, so she invited the girls over for tea as much as she thought she could get away with.

And so there was soon a pleasant rhythm to her days: the girls would join her for her morning rides sometimes, or, when he wasn’t overwhelmed with his work on Father’s case, Robb might come by to take her out. She knew her husband didn’t like it, but Lord Tyrion would stop in sometimes, too, and he was always able to make her laugh.

If it weren’t for Margaery’s continued refusal to see her, and the knowledge that her father’s trial was fast approaching, she might have almost been able to imagine that her life was happy.

***

Robb shook his head, frustrated. His father’s trial was set to begin in only a few months, and he still had no idea what kind of defense he could launch. Yes, the Duke of Casterly Rock had pledged to defend Father, but Robb wasn’t certain he could trust the Duke, even if he had been married to Sansa for months now. Would the Duke really come through for them, the way they needed him to?

More than that, he found himself hopelessly distracted every time he visited his father. Now that the Duke of Winterfell had been moved to a better cell (thanks to Sansa’s husband, Robb had to grudgingly admit), Eddard Stark seemed healthier - although still drawn and gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes and a cough that rarely left him - and he was conscious enough to converse with Robb about their strategy for the trial. Unfortunately, Father had no idea how he had been framed, or who was behind the false accusations and planted documents, and the more they talked, the deeper the mystery became.

And then Lady Talisa would walk into the cell, and all thought of his father’s trial would leave Robb’s head.

He had finally gotten her name, and a little more of her story out of her in recent weeks: she was the daughter of a minor French nobleman who had been killed in the Terror; her mother had fled with Talisa and her younger brother after their father’s arrest, and had settled into a poor but not miserable existence in London. It was the need for money to send her brother to school - as well as the desire to honor her father’s memory - that had spurred Talisa to begin working as a nurse at Newgate Prison. But despite his too-obvious questions (Would she introduce him to her mother? Would she allow him to accompany her to the theater, or on a carriage ride?) she remained aloof, and the only times he saw her were those times he visited his father in prison.

He knew that the daughter of a French emigree, robbed of all titles by the Revolution, would be a poor choice of a match for the future Duke of Winterfell. Especially now, when they were most vulnerable, he should be attending balls and performances, searching for an alliance that would shore up the family’s position. But he found that he wanted nothing more than to spend as much time with Lady Talisa as she would allow.

No. He needed to focus. He couldn’t allow her beautiful voice and her lovely figure and that intoxicating smell that filled any room she entered to cloud his brain.

He was about to open the ledgers again, the ones from the year before the Duke of Winterfell had been arrested, when a footman knocked on the door and entered, followed by a worried-looking Jory Cassel.

Something was wrong. Jory was supposed to be at Winterfell, with the boys. There was no reason he should be in London, unless…

“My Lord, it’s Bran and Rickon. They’re gone.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See endnotes for warnings on this chapter.

_Winterfell, April 1813_

Robb felt his temper rise as he ran his hands through the rumpled sheets. They had combed through what must be every inch of the estates, and they could find no clue as to where the boys might have gone. It was as if they had risen from their beds, leaving the bedclothes messy, but left nothing else disturbed. No windowpane cracked. No lock forced open. No sleeping servant awakened.

At least, that was how it seemed - but Robb was not naive enough to believe they had disappeared with no sound, no trace. Someone had to have been on the inside, helping the kidnappers. So he had questioned everyone who had been on the grounds that night - and gotten nowhere.

Robb had tried to keep the whole affair quiet, hoping that it couldn’t be used as further fodder against the Starks in the court of public opinion, but he had called in the local constables, as well as some of the neighboring lords who had offered their assistance. While the Duke of Winterfell had never had an especially close relationship with the Karstarks or the Boltons, Robb had felt that he needed all the help he could get, so he had summoned Lord Umber, Earl of Last Hearth; Lord Karstark, Viscount of Karhold; and Lord Bolton, Marquess of the Dreadfort; to Winterfell to assist with the search.

He hadn’t spoken to the Duke of Casterly Rock about the matter; hadn’t even told Sansa before he and his mother left London. Guilt plagued him whenever he thought about the fact that he hadn’t informed his sister, but something made him hesitate before trusting the Duke in yet another family matter, especially since his assistance had turned up nothing of use in the search for Arya.

“You’ll find nothing more here,” the voice already had Robb turning in anticipation, “and you need to eat.” Lady Talisa was smiling softly at him from across the room, a tray in her hands.

Robb had asked Lady Talisa to accompany him north almost on a whim; his father seemed to be in good enough shape that they could leave him with the other nurses, and the idea of going north and not seeing Lady Talisa for at least a fortnight seemed almost inconceivable. So, on a whim, on his most recent visit to his father’s cell, Robb had asked her to go with him, arguing that, should they find the boys, they would need a qualified nurse to assess their help. He didn’t know whether she had bought his excuse, but regardless, she had agreed. And they had remained on cordial but distant terms for most of the visit.

Until last night. Late last night, when she had come upon Robb in his study, worried about him - and he had been so tired, so emotionally drained, he had been unable to stop himself. He had taken her face in his hands and kissed her thoroughly, and she whimpered underneath his touch so delightfully. And he couldn’t stop there, either. He kept expecting her to pull away, to slap him, to walk out the door, and he had her down on the soft wool rug before he realized he was taking advantage of a young lady of quality - an impoverished one, to be sure, but still well-born. He had started to move away, to stop himself before he took her virtue, but she had pulled him back down.

“Robb,” she had whispered, “I want you,” and he had come apart.

“Lady Talisa,” he murmured now, watching her as she closed the door behind her and set the tray down on a side table.

She raised an eyebrow, that sweet, seductive smile on her lips. “I’m not a lady, Lord Robb. Not anymore.”

He beckoned her to come closer to him, and she did. He snagged an arm around her waist and pulled her to him, causing her to gasp deliciously. “You were once a lady, and if I have my way, you will be once more. Quite soon, I should hope.”

She shook her head, although he could see understanding dawning in her expression. “I have no idea what you could possibly mean, Lord Robb.”

His arm tightened around her waist. “Given that you’ve lived on our isles for so long, I believe you need a name that better suits your adopted homeland. Perhaps Lady Talisa Stark would fit?”

***

“I have business to attend to at Casterly Rock,” the Duke announced at breakfast one morning. “We leave midmorning, and I intend for us to be away for at least a week; perhaps a fortnight.”

Sansa pondered the news as she sipped her tea. She had been curious to see Casterly Rock since its lord had begun courting her: it was said to be an old castle perched on a cliff above the sea, out of sight of the dirty and bustling city that had made the Lannister family’s fortune. There was a strange irony about that, that the man who benefitted most from the proceeds of industry should refuse to look at it. Then again, she now benefitted from the proceeds of those same mills and mines and shipping companies, too.

Perhaps, she thought, they might discover new things about each other, away from the bustle of London. Perhaps his present passion for her might turn into something else entirely.

But in recent weeks they had also settled into something of a routine that was at least familiar, if not entirely comfortable. The Duke would come home for dinner many nights, although certainly not all, and they had even reinstated their morning rides, once or twice a week.

The routine had been disturbed somewhat the week before, when her mother and brother had left the city without warning, with only a note informing her of their departure. She had wondered if it had been bad news that had summoned them away - and although she hoped they would tell her if it was, she found her thoughts returning frequently to that nagging worry, that something was truly wrong.

But the routine itself, aside from that, was pleasant enough. Stable. Predictable. She was loath to disrupt what was developing between them, when it was still so fragile.

And she chafed at the fact that she was still an afterthought for him; he must have had at least some notice of the need to travel, and yet he was only now telling her, with the assumption that she could simply drop all of her plans and follow him?

Then again, what choice did she have? He had told her they would be going, so they would be going. It was as simple as that.

She nodded slowly. “Yes, Duke.”

***

The ride northwest was not an easy one. The Duke set a hard pace, with stops only to change horses, so by the time they reached Casterly Rock, late in the afternoon on the day after they had set out, Sansa was sore all over from the jostling in the carriage and trying to sleep on the hard seat.

The night had been the worst. When the Starks has traveled to London at the start of last season, they had taken their time, stopping when needed and staying at three different inns along the way, so Sansa had never experienced trying to fall asleep on a hard seat in a moving carriage. At some point in the night, the Duke must have seen her tossing and turning, because he had pulled her into his lap, and she had a more peaceful rest there, although it still wasn’t comfortable by any means.

Sansa knew she must look a fright by the time they arrived at the main gates of the manor: her hair in disarray, her gown wrinkled. All she wanted was a steaming bath waiting for her (which she thought she might reasonably expect, if the maidservants assigned to her here were at all attentive) and a night’s rest in a soft, warm bed - preferably in her husband’s arms (a fact she was now willing to admit to herself, although not to him).

But this was not to be, at least at present. Sansa’s stomach dropped at the sight of what must have been fifty servants standing in the lane before the house, waiting for inspection. A more attentive husband might have stopped at an inn to allow his wife to arrange herself before such a greeting; but the Duke of Casterly Rock clearly had his mind on other things and instead had headed straight here, not considering the impression his Duchess might wish to make on his household staff. So Sansa did her best to appear dignified, even as she was acutely aware of how she must look to the assembled servants.

When the Duke introduced his steward - a Mr. Frey - the man took Sansa’s hand and kissed it, and something in his expression that she couldn’t quite name made her shudder. It was as if the man was somehow both condescending and too forward, at once, although the only words he spoke were a demure, “Your Grace.”

At least the housekeeper seemed decent enough, and the two women who were introduced as Sansa’s maidservants looked competent.

Once the ritual was completed - in a brief enough period of time, thankfully - the Duke turned to Sansa. “I have a great deal to discuss with Mr. Frey. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Then he strode off toward the main entrance, leaving Sansa to her own devices.

Summoning her strongest memories of her mother taking charge of a situation, Sansa turned to her maidservants. “Draw a bath for me,” she announced, turning to enter the house herself, “and when I’m finished, bring my tea to the parlor.”

The parlor, as it turned out, was on the cliff-side of the house, and the wide windows provided stunning views of the waves below. Once she had bathed and put on a fresh dress, Sansa was quite content to sew on the settee by the window until the sunset began to turn the waves on the horizon a deep orange-gold and she judged that it was time to change for dinner.

Walking into the dining room - a massive room that reminded her of the hall at Winterfell; clearly a medieval banquet room - Sansa was surprised to find the steward seated beside her husband. Both men stood when she entered, and the Duke pulled out Sansa’s chair for her, but then they immediately returned to the conversation they had been in the midst of when she arrived.

The Duchess of Winterfell had ensured that Sansa was by no means ignorant about the running of a large estate, but she found it difficult to follow what they were discussing, given how little knowledge she had about the Duke’s holdings in the West.

The Duke had never encouraged her interest in anything outside his London townhouse, but Sansa decided that she would make a point of learning about the Duke’s property - all of it. A wife should know about her husband’s concerns, so she might best support him, and simply because she was the young wife of an old, powerful duke, did not mean she could avoid that duty. Tomorrow, she thought, while the Duke was engaged in whatever business he needed to address, she would make a point of looking through the estate’s record books and learning more about the West.

Meanwhile, the fact that her husband had regressed to treating her like a piece of furniture was galling. Their dinner conversation had never been comfortable or easy, but at least they had reached the point of inquiring into each others’ days, before the Duke would return to his papers. He ignored her now as he had done in the first weeks of their marriage, his attention focused entirely on the steward.

Which was another point that perplexed Sansa. The steward was an integral part of how Winterfell ran - with the input of the Duke and Duchess themselves, of course - but he was a servant, not a member of the family. Sansa was surprised to find that Tywin, who was otherwise so focused on hierarchy, would consort with his steward at dinner.

So surprised, in fact, that she asked him about it that night when he entered the Duchess’ chambers through a connecting door quite similar to the one in their London townhouse.

“The Freys are connected to us through my sister, Genna,” he pointed out, running a hand through her hair as she sat at the vanity, watching him in the mirror. Sansa kicked herself for not having remembered this bit of Lannister family history. “An ill-advised match to the second son, and one I spoke out against before I was sent to the Americas; but the wedding had already taken place by the time the war ended and I returned to Casterly Rock.”

His other hand fell to her shoulder as he continued to stroke her hair, and she leaned into the intimate gesture. “Symond is far removed from the title, and the Freys manage their land poorly enough that none of their income ends up in his hands, so I keep him on as my steward as a favor to his mother, more than anything else.”

She nodded. The man was practically family, so the Duke treated him as such. A case in which his loyalty to family superseded his concern with propriety. She still didn’t like the man, but she now understood why the Duke interacted with him the way he did.

Then she ventured to ask the other question that had been gnawing at her all afternoon, since they had arrived here at Casterly Rock. “Tywin,” she asked, his proximity making her bold, “what do you expect of me, as your wife?”

He looked at her in the mirror with a puzzled expression - not disapproving, just confused, as if she had asked a question that simply made no sense. “You’ll be mother to my children.”

She shook her head, trying to decide how best to explain herself. “Of course. But that won’t happen for at least a little while yet. And even after we have them, the children won’t take up all of my time. My mother always assisted my father with matters relating to the estates, and she still does the same, now that Robb’s taken over.” She paused, attempting to explain her concern without offending her husband. “I don’t sit idly by, Your Grace. A wife is supposed to be her husband’s helpmate; I’d like to help you, if I can.”

He didn’t respond immediately; he simply continued running his hand through her hair, a contemplative expression on his face. Finally, he remarked, his voice quiet, “That’s why I pay Symond, Sansa - to care for my estates. What need have I for your help?”

His words were condescending, certainly, but his tone seemed to suggest it was a real question; he honestly wanted to know why she thought she should take on this responsibility. So she turned to look at him squarely, forcing herself to fully meet his gaze. “Because while a steward’s loyalties may waver, I am your wife, and my allegiance is to you, completely.”

He looked at her for a long moment. His hand stopped moving. “Symond may be my steward, but he’s also family. His loyalty to me will not waver. But you, Sansa - I believe you still hold your loyalty the Starks above your loyalty to the Lannisters, even now. Am I wrong?"

She wanted to say no, that she was completely loyal to him, but they both knew that would be a lie. She took his hand, hoping to bring back some of the intimacy their physical closeness had created, to cross some of the distance between them that she knew might never truly be breached. “Will you at least allow me to familiarize myself with the estate records? A lady should understand her husband’s concerns, shouldn’t she?”

He sighed, his hand light on her shoulder. “Very well. I’m riding down to Lannisport tomorrow morning to inspect some of our holdings there, so you can ask Symond to show you the books then. Now - enough talk.”

She heard the heat in his voice, and she had known him long enough now to understand what he wanted. She rose to meet him, and his lips found hers, his kisses almost violent in their fervor, their need for her. There was no need for prelude, for slow build-up; she knew he would take her fast and hard, and she was glad of it. She had grown bold in the months since they had been married; she reached down into his breeches to feel his manhood growing as they kissed, and he groaned into her mouth as she stroked him, her hand running down the velvety flesh, moving it with her hand as she soon would with her body.

For the first time since that night in Tyrion’s club, he didn’t steer her toward the bed. Instead, he pushed her up against one of the bedroom walls, and shoving up the skirts of her nightshift, thrust into her with force she hadn’t experienced before.

It should have felt demeaning, to have him take her the way he had when she had been dressed as a whore; but instead it felt even more intimate, as if he were permitting her to see a side of him he kept carefully locked away and controlled. It made her yearn for more, even as his fingers brought her to completion and he groaned his own into her mouth.

After a moment, he pulled away, his seed dripping down her leg; and she was surprised by the tenderness of his goodbye kiss, before he disappeared back through the connecting door.

She tried not to feel his absence in her bed, a bed that was even larger than the one in the Duchess’ chambers in their London townhouse. This was a different place, she reminded herself, and they would have different habits here. There was no reason her husband should feel beholden to spending the night in her bed; and yet, there was an ache that rose in her, knowing he was just in the next room, but might as well be miles away from her, for all she could do to reach him.

***

Sansa’s impression of Mr. Symond Frey didn’t improve with their next meeting.

“I have no instruction from His Grace on providing a lady with a tour of the ledgers. I’m far too busy this morning for such nonsense.”

Sansa felt herself losing her temper, and she stamped down on it violently to keep control of the situation. She imagined encasing herself in ice, and allowed her words to take on as freezing a tone as she could summon. “I’m not just any lady, Mr. Frey - I’m the Duchess of Casterly Rock, and when I give you an order, you are to treat it as though you are receiving an command from the Duke himself.” She paused, to allow him to take in her words, before continuing, her tone more pleasant. “And this needn’t be a burden for you - I can manage perfectly well in a ledger on my own. Where are the most recent books?”

She wanted to laugh at his open-mouthed gape, but she knew that wouldn’t ultimately benefit her. So when he provided the ledger she requested, she took it into the library and sat down to look it over.

Much of it was exactly what she expected: receipts from the mills and trade in Lannisport, both those the Duke owned directly and those he had a part share in, were significantly higher than agricultural profits. Which explained why the Starks held so much less wealth than the Lannisters and other families that had capitalized on trade.

And why the Duke wanted access to the mines that were beginning to open in the North. They would provide raw resources for his industrial concerns.

But there were several line items that caught Sansa by surprise: specifically, loans to the Baratheons. Why was the Duke lending his daughter so much money? And why wasn’t he requiring them to pay him back?

She wanted to ask him that night at dinner, but Mr. Frey stayed for the whole meal, and Sansa didn’t want to ask anything potentially personal in front of someone else - even a distant relation. And when he came to her that night, he was clearly not in the mood for talking.

So it wasn’t until their ride across the grounds the next morning - on fine horses taken from the Casterly Rock stables - that Sansa got the chance to speak with him privately.

She decided it was best to simply ask him outright. “Why are you lending so much money to your daughter?”

He smirked. “And now I see the danger of allowing you to examine the accounting books. You don’t miss a thing.” He paused. “It’s good business: we lend them money, they pay it back with interest.”

A logical enough response, but one that wasn’t reflected in the ledgers. “When was the last time they paid you back?”

He looked at her sharply. “I don’t need to be paid back. Not at present. The more they owe me, the more in their outstanding accounts, the more power I have over the two largest dukedoms in the realm.”

She pondered that. The Duchess was his daughter - so why was he so fixated on having power over her? And why was power over the other dukedoms necessary at all? There was still so much of the picture she wasn’t seeing yet, and she found it deeply unsettling. But she also sensed that, were she to ask, she would get either a flat refusal to answer, or a response that told her nothing. The Duke might trust her with some things, but he wasn’t willing to reveal his overall strategy to her: and perhaps, given their discussion about loyalty the other night, he was right not to.

Sansa was still contemplating this question when the bottom dropped out from underneath her.

Or, more precisely: without warning, her horse bolted out from beneath her, and her saddle slipped to the side, throwing her violently off her mount and onto the hard-packed earth of the road. But she didn’t realize any of that until it was recounted to her later: all she could feel was the sensation of flying through the air and hitting the ground hard.

Tywin was beside her in seconds. “Sansa!” She realized he must be yelling, but she was too dazed for it to register. “Sansa, are you alright?”

She started to get up, to move, to try to nod, but when she pulled her hand out from underneath her, it was covered in blood. Vaguely it occurred to her that she shouldn’t be bleeding so much from a fall like this; that so much blood couldn’t be a good sign - and then she knew no more.

***

The next thing Sansa knew, she was lying in bed back in Casterly Rock, with strong arms around her. Tywin’s arms.

“Tywin?” she asked weakly, trying to look up at him but unable to find his face in her daze, “What happened?”

“She’s awake,” he announced to someone nearby - perhaps the doctor. His hands stroked down her sides, as if she were a frightened horse he was trying to calm. “You’re alright, Sansa, you’re alright.”

She leaned back into his touch, allowing herself to take comfort from it. Something steady in a world that was still reeling. Her husband was sitting behind her in bed, she realized as she got her bearings, her body nestled into his lap as if she were a child; and he must have been here for some time, judging by the fact that his shoes and coat were off, and it felt like his shirt was the only thing between her and his bare skin.

Then he finally answered her question, his voice clipped, cold. “Your horse threw you.” Four simple words that said everything, and yet nothing at all.

She tried to piece together her memories. The feeling of falling: that fit. But what about all the blood? “Why was I bleeding so badly?”

He was silent for a moment, and she felt him grip her arms tighter. “Have something to eat first. You’re still weak.”

She tried to protest, to say she was strong enough to handle whatever he had to say, but one of the maidservants was putting a bowl of soup in front of her, and she found she was, in fact, quite hungry. But before she could lift the spoon herself, her husband’s hands were there, bringing the hot liquid to her mouth. “Let me, Duchess,” he murmured, and she sensed that he needed to do this, needed to feel in control, perhaps more than she actually needed his help, so she allowed him to.

When he had finished, when the maidservant had borne the tray away again, she decided it was time to try again - this time from a different angle. “My mount was well-trained and calm, and I’ve never fallen before. What happened, to make her bolt?”

She felt him sag beneath her. “She ran all the way to our neighbor, Lord Marbrand’s land. He brought her back this afternoon, along with a burr he found under her saddle, which had been fastened much too loose.”

She inhaled sharply. So this had been no accident, no unfortunate event - someone had tried to kill her, or at least harm her badly. Someone close enough to the family to have had access to their horses.

Tywin pulled her closer to him. “We’ll find whoever is responsible, Duchess. I promise you. And he will pay.” And that, Sansa didn’t doubt. After all, a Lannister always paid his debts.

But there was still one more question to be answered. “And the blood?”

The doctor stepped closer now; for some reason, Tywin seemed reluctant to answer this question himself. Why?

“Your Grace,” the doctor said softly, “it appears that you were carrying a babe. You lost him in the fall.”

No. Sansa’s breath came faster, and she felt panic overtake her, even as Tywin’s hands resumed stroking down her arms, trying to calm her. No, that just wasn’t possible. If Sansa had been carrying a babe, she would have known…wouldn’t she?

Then again, now that she thought about it, her cycle hadn’t come recently. How recently? Her muddled mind couldn’t say. Was it possible that the doctor’s words were true? That whoever had tried to kill her had, in fact, killed her child; killed the Duke’s heir?

“Oh, God,” she found herself murmuring, “Lord Almighty,” and she was vaguely aware of Tywin dismissing the doctor.

“Sansa,” he murmured when they were alone, turning her so she rested on his chest, pressing kisses to her forehead, her temples. “Sansa,” and it was then that she remembered that he had lost his first wife in childbirth, bearing Lord Tyrion; that his wife miscarrying their son must be that much more painful for him because of that.

So she pulled his lips down to hers. “Tywin,” she whispered back, trying to steady herself so she could comfort him; trying to pull herself out of her own grief so she could share in his; so she could do her duty as his wife.

Then he spoke again, his voice firm. “It’s not your fault, Sansa. Don’t blame yourself.” She nodded. It was easier to say that than to feel it, but it helped to know he didn’t believe she was at fault. “We’ll get the bastards who are responsible for this, I promise you, and they’ll pay for it.”

She kissed him again. “It’s not our last chance,” she whispered, trying to convince herself that her words were true.

He tucked her against his chest, and as much as she wanted to question him, to find out more, to comfort him in any way she could, she found herself drifting back into sleep.

***

It almost physically pained Tywin to slip out of bed after his wife had finally fallen asleep in his arms. He had wanted desperately to stay there, to soothe her hurts with his presence, to feel her warm breath on his skin, to listen to the little sounds she made as she slept - all the things he was surprised to find he had grown used to since he had started spending nights in her bed.

But he couldn’t sit idle, even now. From the moment he saw her tumble, and felt her faint in his arms, he had been thrumming with agitation, with the need to hurt, to destroy, to avenge. And then, when Lord Addam Marbrand, Tywin’s neighbor and friend, had brought back the runaway horse, the burr in his hand, Tywin had been fully consumed with rage. He needed to find out who was responsible for attempting to murder his wife - for killing his heir, he reminded himself wildly, furiously - and he couldn’t think about his next steps with the distraction that was his Duchess lying beside him.

He had sent for Varys the moment Sansa had fallen. He hadn’t told her that she’d been wobbling in and out of consciousness for days, the blood loss from the miscarriage slowing her recovery, and the fear that consumed him the entire time sometimes forcing him out of her bedroom entirely, lest his feelings for his wife be revealed even to the doctor and maidservants who attended her. The world knew he had nearly gone mad when he lost his first wife; there was no need to gain a reputation as a fool for love.

Not that he loved her, of course. She was his wife, and it was his duty to protect her, and he had failed. Nothing more than that. He wouldn’t think of how young and vulnerable she looked, how wrapping her in his arms hadn’t really been about her needs at all, but about his; how desperately he had needed to see her eyes blink open, to see her sleepy smile, to reassure himself that she would be alright.

Tywin opened the door to his study, and Varys stood from where he had been sitting, in front of the massive desk that had stood in this room ever since Casterly Rock had been elevated to a dukedom centuries before.

“How is Her Grace?” Varys’ voice was all concern, and it relieved Tywin a little, to know that his Duchess had apparently gained his spymaster’s loyalty and affection. He was glad she had Varys as an ally for her own sake, and not only his.

Tywin grunted, his anger still burning under the surface, even as he tightly held the reins on his temper. “Recovering. When can you begin your investigation?”

Varys smiled slightly. “I already have, Your Grace. We’re starting in the stables, and we’ll move our investigation outward from there.”

Tywin nodded as he took his usual chair behind the desk, reassured somewhat that his spymaster had the situation fully in hand.

“Your Grace, there is something else.”

Tywin looked up at Varys, waiting for the man to go on.

“I have fewer birds in the North, but they’ve reported some interesting news from Winterfell.”

“Oh?” The Starks were already in enough trouble as it was; what had happened this time?

“The Duchess and Lord Robb returned to the North with such haste because the two younger boys, Bran and Rickon, were kidnapped.”

Tywin felt his rage grip him again. Why in Hell hadn’t Sansa told him? He would have lent her brother any aid he might have needed.

But Varys seemed to anticipate his reaction. “From what we understand, Your Grace,” he continued, “Lord Robb did not inform your lady wife before he went north.”

This was getting worse and worse, Tywin thought. His wife’s younger brothers had been abducted, and no one in her family had bothered to tell her? Did informing her become his responsibility, then? Or could he pretend he had no knowledge of the abduction?

“Can you involve yourself in the investigation discreetly, so Lord Robb does not become aware of your presence?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He paused, and examined Tywin for a moment. “But there is something more.”

Tywin frowned.“What else could there possibly be?”

“Apparently, Lord Robb has married. According to my sources, his bride is an impoverished French emigre.”

Tywin rested his head in his hands, trying to process this new information. Sansa was no longer a Stark, but she would feel the pain and shame heaped on her family nonetheless - and the pain would be that much worse for the fact that her brother and mother had attempted to hide it from her. But ultimately, it wasn’t his place to tell her; it was theirs.

Varys said no more, but when Tywin raised his head, the spymaster was still studying him. Then, with a slight nod, as if he had gotten the information he wanted, he slipped out the door and into the night.

***

Lancel knew his beautiful cousin wasn’t, could never be his; that much was clear from the moment she had somehow decided he was worthy of her attentions. But it didn’t stop him from wanting more, each time she pulled him aside for a hasty assignation; each time they coupled in her bedroom, where the Duke used to visit her, at the very beginning of their marriage; the Duke who was always more interested in whores and mistresses than in the stunning woman he was married to.

For months, his father had been pressuring him to marry a girl from the _ton_ ; the daughter of a baron, perhaps, who would settle for a titleless Lannister, with the minor lands and properties afforded to the son of the second son. But Lord Kevan was in Spain, commanding a unit under the great General Wellington (Lancel could do without hearing another mention of the General for the rest of his life), and he had no power over what his son did while he was away. So Lancel lay with Cersei, and imagined what it would be like to truly have her.

He couldn’t stop himself, when she was lying in his arms one evening. Marriages between cousins weren’t all that unusual; she couldn’t mind that. And his father was beloved of her father, the Duke; there could be no disapproval there, even if he didn’t have a title in his own right.

“If we could just get your husband out of the way,” he heard himself saying, even as he knew it was a poor idea, his hands running down her bare sides, “perhaps we might have a chance.”

“A chance?” He now knew that he had been a fool, but he hadn’t heard the warning in her voice then.

“You hate him, and I can’t imagine he likes you much either. There are ways...”

He had stopped, suddenly fearful of the disgust he saw in her face. “Lancel Lannister,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, “I think you fail to understand the situation you have found yourself in.” She didn’t pull away from him; her face was still inches from his; and somehow, that was more threatening than if she had leapt out of bed.

“I hold a position of power and influence in the _ton_ \- two titles, to be precise - solely by virtue of my marriage to Robert Baratheon, disgusting as he is. The dissolution of my marriage, in whatever way you seem to be suggesting, would mean the end of that position. Do you imagine that I hold enough affection for you to give that up?”

He found himself shrinking back from her. “No, Your Grace,” he whispered, his voice suddenly weak, “of course not-”

He had only gotten that far when she growled, “Get out. I don’t want to see you again.”

He could still see the anger and loathing in her face, a week later, as he stared into his dirty glass of ale, wondering whether he should just return to his father’s holdings in the West. He was no soldier, unlike his father; he had no desire to risk his neck abroad, as much as his uncle the War Secretary might look down on him for it.

“Lancel Lannister.” The voice was smooth, confident, and sounded utterly out of place in a lower-class establishment like this one. “I believe we may have something to offer one another.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: pregnancy, miscarriage
> 
> The saddle & burr situation is taken entirely from Tamora Pierce's Alanna series, because I have no shame.


	9. Chapter 9

They were going to need to return to London at some point. The Duke’s duties at the War Office were no doubt piling up in his absence, and Parliament was again in session, which meant he also had business in the House of Lords that he was missing while they lingered at Casterly Rock. And the Duke of Winterfell’s trial was set to begin in just a few months, requiring his attention as well.

But he seemed reluctant to leave his ancestral home before he was certain that Sansa was healthy enough to travel. She tried not to think too much about that; it wasn’t concern for her, after all, but for the babe she would carry, once he had again gotten her with child. That was all she was to him, no matter how much desire he looked at her with: she was a convenient vessel for child-bearing. If she tried to read any more into his actions, she would only drive herself mad.

They hadn’t spoken about it, of course, since that first night she had woken up in his arms. Neither of them mentioned the child-that-was-no-longer, although she thought about him often: what it would have felt like to grow round and full as he grew; whether the Duke might have shown more affection to her then, his large hands stroking his child as they lay together in bed; what it would have felt like to have her son in her arms for the first time.

But that was not to be, at least with this first child. Someone had stolen that from them, and she knew the Duke would get his revenge, one way or another.

A fortnight after they arrived at Casterly Rock, the Duke finally asked her, patiently but with clear purpose, whether she would be ready to depart the following day.She saw no reason to delay, so she prepared herself for another unpleasant journey south.

And there, she was surprised. He must have realized how miserable she had been on the way north, so they stopped at inns along the way, slowing their journey to three much more reasonable travel days. Each evening, they were able to sit down for a hot meal and enjoy a hot bath - and Sansa didn’t complain when he slid into the cramped tub behind her and washed her as if she were something precious and fragile. She also didn’t protest when he climbed into the narrow bed they were to share and pulled her into his arms, as he had been doing each night since her fall.

Still, when they finally arrived at the Duke’s London townhouse, Sansa was looking forward to nothing more than a long, luxurious soak in her own large tub and the opportunity to sit on something that wasn’t moving.

Which is why she found herself initially annoyed, and then outright concerned, to come home to find the Duchess of Storm’s End and King’s Landing in the drawing room, looking as though she were ready to tear something apart.

“I thought we had an agreement, Father.” Cersei’s voice was low, but her tone was as threatening as it might have been, had she been shouting.

Tywin squeezed Sansa’s hand - an unusual gesture of reassurance, for him - and then stalked toward his daughter, as a lion might stalk its prey.

“Tell me, _daughter_ ,” he replied, his voice just as low and dangerous as hers, “in what way have I been remiss?” The challenge was clear.

Cersei waved a letter in his general direction, her eyes bright with anger. “If my _father_ had been more concerned with ensuring that our enemies continued to fear the Lannister name, rather than fucking that little Stark whore of yours, then no one would have dared send me _this_!”

The Duke grabbed his daughter by the shoulders in a way that must have been uncomfortable, judging by Cersei’s expression. Then he looked over at Sansa, his voice utterly calm. “Sansa darling, would you give us a moment?”

She nodded, knowing better than to turn his anger on herself, and left the room; but Cersei’s accusation had piqued her interest, and she couldn’t help but linger just beyond the doorway, to hear her husband growl, his voice almost too low to hear, “You will show my wife the respect she deserves, daughter, or I swear…”

Sansa couldn’t help it; she smiled a little to herself before she headed upstairs to indulge in a long, hot bath. After she had lingered in the warm water for long enough, washing away the grime from travel, she headed for the parlor to deal with correspondence that had been left unanswered while she and the Duke had been away. There were no more sounds from the drawing room, so Sansa could only assume that either Cersei had departed, or Tywin had cowed her into silence.

One letter in the pile stood out from the others: a simple envelope, with no indication of the sender, except for a mysterious seal that Sansa suddenly recognized as the warped lion symbol that stood above the doors of the Dwarves’ Den. But what did Tyrion want now?

She tore open the letter to find only a hastily scrawled note. “Come quickly.”

***

“Quickly” wasn’t quite the word Sansa would use to describe it, when all was said and done. She had found the Duke in his study - a room she seldom entered when he was at home, and the Duke looked surprised to see her there - and it had taken a fair amount of effort to convince him that, as the letter’s recipient, she should be permitted to go along. The last time she had visited the Dwarves’ Den clearly weighed on both their minds, but she was adamant: she would not be left out of something that might pertain to her father’s case, not with the trial so close.

So the Duke himself had found a plain, unassuming cloak for her to wear, and chosen a carriage that would draw less attention than the one that bore the Lannister seal on the side. Sansa tried not to imagine that the way he fastened the cloak around her neck and pulled its hood over her face was at all careful or, Lord preserve her, tender or affectionate.

The Dwarves’ Den was in disarray when they arrived. Shouting could be heard from inside, and it took long minutes of the Duke’s heavy knocking before a young boy who must usually work in the kitchen answered the door. Upon learning who they were, he immediately scuttled off, shutting the door behind him and leaving the Duke and Duchess outside on what was quickly becoming an unpleasant night. 

Sansa stood in the doorway, with the Duke’s tall figure directly in front of her, to protect her from both the cold rain and curious onlookers.Although she found herself growing impatient, her feelings were clearly mild compared to the frustration developing on the Duke’s face.At some point, she took his hand and stroked the back of it with her fingers, trying to give both of them a modicum of comfort as they waited to find out what Tyrion had so urgently written about.

Finally, the door opened again, and Shae herself ushered them in. “Stupid boy,” she muttered as she helped Sansa out of her drenched cloak, “leaving guests standing out there in the cold like that. Lord Tyrion told all the boys to send you straight to him, if you arrived, but some of our kitchen boys are denser than others.”

As Shae led them through the club to the owner’s suite, Sansa was surprised to find that most of the rooms were empty, aside from a few harried employees.It was evening - wasn’t that supposed to be a club’s most active time?

And when they entered the owners’ suite, Lord Tyrion simply sat at the desk, his head in his hands. Sansa didn’t believe she’d ever seen him look so defeated. He only looked up when Shae quietly announced, “The Duke and Duchess to see you,” and ushered them into seats beside the desk, while she took up her own behind theirs.

The Duke sat stiffly in the offered chair, his eyes boring into his younger son, and Sansa cringed, not at all eager to watch her husband finally unleash his carefully held temper on Tyrion.

But Lord Tyrion’s next words surprised Sansa and - she thought - her husband as well. “Father,” he sighed, turning to them but not making eye contact, “I need your help.”

The Duke recovered quickly. “You drag my wife and myself to a filthy gambling den and then have the nerve to ask for my help? Because what, you made a poor gamble and need someone to bail you out?”

Tyrion shook his head. “I have no one else to turn to.” Then he seemed to recover somewhat; perhaps because, in negotiation, he felt himself on more familiar ground. “I have a proposition for you. I know this isn’t the type of business you normally invest in, but I assure you, aside from this current trouble, it’s a profitable enterprise. If you agree to help me, I’ll make you a part owner.”

Sansa could see in the Duke’s face a conflict brewing between his disgust for his son’s work and his interest in a potential profit. It appeared that his avarice eventually won out, because after a moment, he simply announced, “Go on.”

Then Tyrion sighed, apparently relieved his father was at least willing to listen to him. “We have a large client base, and that has drawn the attention of other…businessmen in the district. Ever since the Mockingbird’s Palace opened a few streets over, we’ve been empty every night. Now, I’m an entrepreneur, and I don’t begrudge someone who can do a better job serving customers than I can - but then I learned that not only has the owner of this new club been severely undercutting my prices, he’s had men out in the street here, threatening my clients if they try to enter. And his men have roughed up several of my employees.”

The Duke continued to examine his son carefully. Sansa could read nothing in his expression. “And in what way do you believe I could possibly help?”

“I know Varys works for you - and not just in his capacity as a War Office employee.Send him to find out who owns the new establishment, and why they’re so dead-set on attacking the Dwarves’ Den. Whoever’s attacking me is out for more than profit; this is a declaration of war.War on the Lannisters.”He paused to let his words sink in, and Sansa was impressed by how well Tyrion knew what he could say that would increase the likelihood of the Duke’s participation. 

“And I need protection,” Tyrion continued.“I know you have men-at-arms you could send; have them guard the main entrance, at least until I can get my own people in place.”

The Duke frowned. “For the time being, I have told Varys that his top priority is the Stark trial.” Sansa felt her heart lighten just a little at that; she hadn’t heard the Duke speak of her father’s case in weeks, and the knowledge that he still had Lord Varys working on it was comforting.

“If he has any spare time,” the Duke continued, “I will ask him to look into this Mockingbird’s Palace. I am afraid that I cannot spare any men at this point, however; they are needed for guarding my Duchess, after an attempt was made on her life.”

Lord Tyrion’s eyes widened. “Well, that certainly complicates things, doesn’t it? Any idea who’s responsible?”

“Not yet,” the Duke growled, “but be assured, as soon as I find out, they will pay.”

In the end, with a bit of encouragement from Sansa, the Duke had agreed to lend Tyrion a few of his men-at-arms who weren’t needed for guard duty.He was a bit more willing to concede the men after Sansa assured him she had no intention of riding out into the city alone - not until they had identified the spy in their midst - and would use the carriage for her errands, for the foreseeable future.

She didn’t understand precisely why the Duke had agreed to his son’s request - it certainly didn’t seem to be out of any love he bore Tyrion, at least as far as she could see.Perhaps it truly was as simple as her husband's love of a profit.

***

“I’ll take care of Her Grace from here.”

Sansa felt herself shiver at her husband’s words, dismissing her maidservants the moment the two of them entered the Duchess’s bedroom. The desire she found burning in her eyes confirmed exactly what he wanted, and she realized that she wanted it, too.

And yet his hands were gentle as he spun her around so he could pull out her hairpins. As he carefully pulled open her gown, and unlaced her stays. As he slowly bared her to his eyes, until she finally stood naked before him, watching him consume her with his gaze.

It was his gaze that made her bolder than she ever imagined she might be. “May I?” she asked, her hand moving toward his cravat.

He growled in response, which she took as an approval, and she set about undressing her husband for the first time in their marriage. Once she had pulled his shirt over his head, his long arms helping her tug it off and away from his body, she took her time running her hands over his chest, enjoying the feel of his muscles and fine gold hair under her hands.

“I take it,” he murmured, running his lips down her neck, “that you appreciate your husband’s physique?”

For a moment she was tempted to tell him precisely how insufferable she found him and his arrogance, but then his teeth grazed her collarbone, and she no longer had the patience to fight with him. Instead, she unfastened his breeches - and yet, before she could even get them off him, he was stepping out of them, throwing them to the side, and pushing her down and pinning her to the bed.

“I have only so much patience,” he growled in her ear, “when it comes to you, darling. After you asked me to endure far too much interaction with Tyrion today, I think I deserve at least one good tumble tonight.”

Her husband’s vulgar words set Sansa’s body on fire, even as she pushed back against his chest, only half-angry with him. “I asked you to endure nothing. Lord Tyrion’s note was addressed to me, husband.”

At that, he seized her hands in one of his large ones and held them above her head, his eyes challenging hers. “You think I would allow my _wife_ to walk back into that den of iniquity alone? You think I didn’t notice how much attention you drew to yourself the first time?”

As always, she couldn’t resist baiting him, even as she knew he would take it, and the result would be enjoyable for both of them. “I think I can do whatever I want. I _am_ a duchess, after all.”

“ _My_ duchess,” he growled, his voice so low and dangerous, she would have been worried for its recipient, had she not known exactly what was coming next. “You belong to me, and no one else, is that clear?”

She surprised herself by reaching up to kiss him, needing that contact before he took her. “I’m yours, Duke. All of me.”

He took her like that, pinned beneath him and writhing as his fingers drove her mad with need.This was the first time he had bedded her since her fall and, oddly enough, she found she had missed it.The feel of him inside her, the slight roughness of his skin on hers, the warmth of his arms around her.

In only the few short months they had been married, somehow this had become easy in a way that little else in their marriage was.Their bodies had grown accustomed to one another, seemingly without their owners’ permission, falling into a rhythm all their own whenever the Duke came to Sansa’s bed.She surrendered to it now, letting her body respond to his, letting the pressure build up, and when his fingers finally sent her over the edge, he came crashing down with her.

It felt right when he tucked her into his chest, his hands stroking down her sides, as the two of them drifted off together; it felt, finally, as if they had returned to the intimacy they had enjoyed before their disastrous trip to Casterly Rock.It wasn’t ideal, and it was certainly nowhere near what her parents had, but it felt like the beginning of something: the beginning of a mutual respect and perhaps the possibility of something more.

***

It wasn’t until the next day that Sansa was able to call at the Stark townhouse, and she was pleased to find that her mother and brother had returned from their visit to Winterfell.

The moment her brother entered the drawing room, Sansa threw her arms around him. It wasn’t until she released him and took a step back to look at him that she realized, first, that his expression was much more serious than it should be, even with their father’s trial approaching, and second, that he wasn’t alone.

A young lady who looked to be a few years older than Sansa stepped forward and curtseyed. “Sansa,” Robb said softly, “this is my wife, Lady Talisa Stark.”

It was all Sansa could do not to gape. Wife? Since when had Robb been courting someone - especially a lady as beautiful as this one? And why had he not at least informed her he was getting married?

But as much as she wanted to whack Robb over the head for his foolishness in getting married without telling her, Sansa knew it would do no good. So she retreated into courtesy instead. “This is quite a surprise. How did it happen?”

Robb smiled at Lady Talisa and took her hand in a show of affection that felt almost over-the-top. “Lady Talisa was caring for Father in prison. Her family fled the Terror in France after her father was killed.”

Sansa looked at Lady Talisa more carefully then, and she could see it - the woman did have a bit of a foreign look to her, and when she murmured, “It’s an honor to meet you, my lady,” she could hear the French tones in her voice - subtle, but clearly present.

Sansa knew that harassing Robb about his marriage - ill-conceived or not - was unlikely to yield useful results at this point, given that it had already taken place, so she turned the conversation to the topic that had been bothering her since he and their mother had abruptly left town over three weeks before. “And your trip to Winterfell was uneventful, I hope? Bran and Rickon are well?”

Robb’s face fell, and Sansa knew at once that all of her foreboding and fear had been justified. “Sansa, there’s something I need to tell you.”

No. No, enough had happened to their family already; she could not bear more bad news. She truly couldn’t.

But Robb didn’t stop, even as Sansa wanted desperately to clamp her hands over her ears and drown out what she knew had to come next. “Bran and Rickon disappeared from Winterfell without a trace. We believe it was a kidnapping, but no ransom note has been forthcoming.”

Then, ice cold anger filled her. “When did this happen, Robb?”

He met her gaze steadily. They had always been like this: one force beating against the other until one of them bent. “A month ago.”

“And why,” she said slowly, evenly, coldly, “in God’s name, did you not tell me until now?”

“Mother and I agreed to keep this as quiet as we could. We did not want it to harm Father’s chances at trial.”

“Keep it quiet - by not informing your sister? The Duke has resources beyond our reach - he could have been helping this whole time, had you not been too proud to approach him! And now, Bran and Rickon are huddled somewhere scared - in the best possible scenario - all because what? You wanted to prove your manliness? That you could do this on your own?”

“And how successful has your husband,” Robb spat back, “been in retrieving Arya? In freeing Father from jail? Maybe he hasn’t succeeded because he hasn’t _wanted_ to succeed. Maybe he’s been fooling us all, keeping us placated, while he does nothing to help - or worse, works against us!”

“That’s not fair,” Sansa replied, moving toward her brother in her rage, in her desire to shake this foolishness out of him. “Father’s trial hasn’t even begun yet, and the Duke is doing the best he can. Just because he hasn’t succeeded yet doesn’t mean he’s betrayed us.”

“Sansa,” Robb said in a low, cold voice she had seldom heard from him, a voice that stopped her in her tracks, “This is a family matter, and I do not want you to inform your husband about it. Understood?”

She nodded, biting back the anger that still coursed through her. How could her brother be so stupid? So blind? So selfish? “Give my regards to Mother,” she responded, her voice going as cold as his, before she swept out of the room.

***

That evening, the Duke came home for dinner. Sansa found herself relieved that they had so easily resumed that routine, after their return from Casterly Rock. She was surprised, however, by his first words to her, once they had sat down.

“You’re angry. Why?”

She looked up at him, puzzled. While often he seemed completely oblivious to anything she was thinking or feeling, every once in a while, his ability to discern her moods truly shocked her.

“It’s my family,” she finally admitted, then, realizing her mistake, quickly added, “the Starks, I mean - my mother and my brother.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, but otherwise didn’t comment on her slip. “And? How have they angered you?”

She sighed, and focused her attention on her soup bowl. “It seems they’ve decided that, since I became a Lannister, I’m no longer worthy of their confidence. They informed me today of...something. Something they should have told me of when it happened, not weeks later.” She could feel the heat rising in her voice, even as she recognized it wasn’t her husband she was angry with.

He looked at her for a long enough time to be almost uncomfortable, even in their repertoire of stilted conversation and long pauses. Then, finally, he asked, “I imagine this _something_ they failed to inform you of has to do with your younger brothers?”

Now she let her fury settle on him. He knew? He had known about her brothers, and hadn’t bothered to tell her either? He was as bad as her mother and brother.

He seemed to sense her mood change, and continued, “I learned about this while we were at Casterly Rock. I didn’t feel it was my place to speak about it.”

She was tempted to laugh at that image: the powerful Duke, shy about speaking his mind? Impossible.

“I would, however, have suggested that you pay a visit to your _family_ -” - was that irony in his voice? “-had you not already planned to do so today.”

She sighed. Was this what it was to be like between herself and her husband, for the duration of their marriage? Her husband holding all of the knowledge, all of the information, and passing it out to her every once in a while like table scraps to a favored hound? Would he ever trust her enough to share things like this with her directly… and promptly?

No, she couldn’t bear to be in his presence any longer, not with this hanging over their heads. If he chose to follow her to bed, then so be it; he rarely spoke when he took her, anyways.

“Your Grace,” she said, retreating behind the protective veil of courtesy, the one that kept her heart from breaking when he did these things, “I tire,” and she strode out of the room.

It was, perhaps, half an hour after she had slipped into bed, her thoughts still too busy and angry to allow her to sleep, that she felt him slide under the covers behind her, his strong arms gathering her to him.

“You’re angry with _me_ now,” he said simply, his hands pressing her hips back into his own.

“How astute, Your Grace,” she replied drily. She wasn’t in the mood for games. If he wanted to take her, then so be it; she would neither encourage nor deny him.

But he didn’t make any movement to bed her, even with his half-hard manhood pressing into her.

“What would you have done in my place, Sansa? Damaged your bonds with your mother and brother because you had to find out from your husband’s spy what they should have been the ones to tell you?”

“Unfortunately, Your Grace, it appears that damage would have been done regardless.”

He didn’t respond to that, but she felt his arms tighten around her stomach and her shoulders, felt his lips on her neck.

“I wish you felt you could be honest with me,” she finally sighed, not quite ready to give in to his touch, but not entirely committed to continuing the argument, either.

“I was never dishonest, Duchess,” he responded, drawing out the final syllables in a delicious way. “I simply made strategic decisions about which information to share with you, and when.”

“You’re an ass,” she responded, kicking him until he grunted in a rather satisfying way.

“Such coarse language for such a well-bred young lady,” he responded, squeezing her breasts tightly.

And that was it.She couldn’t help the whimper that fell out of her mouth at his touch.He responded by flipping her over, so she was beneath him, and taking her hard, rough, fast. 

But she wasn’t willing to surrender fully; she bucked back against him, struggling against his grip, needing to feel like she was fighting him, and he seemed to understand, giving her something to push back against, to have some control over.

When she dug her nails into his back, bit his neck harder than she ever had before, he growled, “My little wolf pup has teeth,” and somehow, it felt like a compliment.

He finished, and moved to rise, but she tugged at his hand, suddenly unashamed of her own boldness, and murmured, “Stay.” 

Surprisingly, he complied.

***

Jon had no idea how he had been picked for this mission.It was true, he had proven himself more adept at his combat training than most of the other recruits, and he was literate - in English, French, and German, thanks to the Duke of Winterfell’s patronage - and a quick study in strategy.But when Lord Stannis had come to him, late one night, and told him he had been selected to join a small group of soldiers who would be sent to work with their Austrian and Prussian allies on the Eastern Front, he had been honored by the chance to work with such a famed war hero.

That had been before their ship arrived in Hamburg, before they had marched their way east and south in the cold and mud of late spring, before they had entered the Allied war camps and found themselves surrounded by the stench of death.The Russians had beaten Napoleon back from their capital, that much was true; but at great cost, and the death toll was only rising as spring wore on.

“Napoleon is rebuilding his army,” Lord Samwell Tarly, Lord Stannis’s secretary, whispered to Jon one evening at dinner.He’s already brought 100,000 fresh troops in from France, to reinforce his current forces, and from what I’ve read, he aims to have nearly half a million men in the east by June.”

The large, red-haired, red-faced Russian officer Jon had seen several times in the command tent clapped Sam on the back, making him wheeze, and declared in heavily accented German,“We beat the French back from Moscow, and we will beat them back to Paris.You will see, little Englishmen.”

Sir Davos appeared and sat on Jon’s other side, smiling at the big Russian man.“Prince Tormund,” he remarked jovially, “I have no doubt you will.Your unit is rumored to be the best in the Imperial Army.”

Prince Tormund laughed.“Of course it is.I’m at its head!”

Jon smiled at that, but he didn’t feel the same easy confidence this Russian officer did.Just because they had forced Napoleon to retreat, didn’t mean he wasn’t still dangerous.A cornered animal was often the most deadly - and this one had powerful artillery, well-trained cavalry, and a bit of a God complex.

And just because he wasn’t here as an ordinary soldier didn’t mean he wouldn’t end up getting caught in the crossfire as two massive armies clashed, fighting for control of a vast continent.

A flash of red hair in another corner of the tent caught Jon’s eye, and for a moment, he thought it was Sansa.But what would the daughter of a Duke - she must be a Duchess herself by now, he thought - be doing in a muddy army camp in the middle of a continent currently split apart by war?

When the owner of the stunning red hair sat down across from him, a suspicious look on her face, he realized she was nothing like Sansa - although she was certainly alluring in her own way, he thought, before he immediately shoved that thought aside.

Prince Tormund interrupted Jon’s thoughts.“Ygritte!” he shouted, thumping her on the back as he would a male colleague, “You’re back!”

“Who are these Englishmen?”Her voice was hard, and her eyes never left Jon as she spoke.

Prince Tormund laughed.“These are our new friends.Our British allies have sent them over to make sure we’re doing the job right.”

She scoffed.“Any allies who couldn’t be bothered to help us when Napoleon was at our gates and breathing down our necks are no allies I want.”

“Oh,” Prince Tormund chuckled, his eyes on Jon, “I think you’ll appreciate these allies.”Then he straightened, his voice more serious.“How was your mission?”

Mission?Just what kind of work did these crazy Russians have a woman doing - and on a battlefield, no less?

She smiled then, a dangerous smile that reminded Jon of a cat dangling a mouse in her jaws.“Better than expected.We were able to pick off several officers - a few of them fairly high-ranking, as far as we could tell - before we were forced to flee."

Jon looked more closely at this woman, now that he realized what she was capable of.She wasn’t a camp follower; she was an assassin.If she could kill more than one man in a single mission, how many Frenchmen had she killed since her unit had left Moscow?

She raised an eyebrow at him, in challenge, as if to say, You know nothing.

***

Tywin had expected that Varys’ note might relate to the investigation into the assassination attempt at Casterly Rock, or perhaps the kidnapping of the Stark boys, and he called the spymaster into his office expecting at least some small piece of good news.

He hadn’t expected Lord Varys to arrive, dragging a young man who looked to be ironborn, from his appearance, behind him in irons.Varys sat the man in the chair before the desk and stood behind him, hands firmly gripping the young man’s shoulders.

“Well?”Things were heating up in Spain again, now that spring had arrived, and the reports from Prussia, where the Allied army was chasing Napoleon back toward France, required careful inspection.He didn’t have time for foolishness, now that he was back in London.

“I caught this young man digging through the archives this morning.Specifically, the service records.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow.This seemed like a minor problem at most; why was Varys bringing this to him?And yet, his spymaster didn’t make mistakes.

“I believe this solves the mystery of the anonymous note your daughter received the other day.”

While Tywin had been furious with Cersei for disrespecting Sansa, he had taken the note she had handed him and brought it to Varys to see whether the spymaster could identify the sender.There was nothing specific in it - just a vague threat - but there had been enough suspicious goings-on over the last few months to warrant investigation.

And apparently it involved this ironborn, whoever he was.

“This is Theon Greyjoy, son of one of the clan chiefs in the Iron Islands.Apparently he and his sister have declared for the Targaryen girl, and he’s snooping for information he hopes will bring down the Baratheons.”

“And how does he hope to do that?”

Before Varys could answer, the boy spoke for himself.“By bringing to light the disgusting relations between your son and daughter, Your Grace.”

Tywin was glad he was sitting, because for a moment, his limbs stopped working.Dear God, he had always suspected there was something unusual in Jaime and Cersei’s relationship, but never had he thought that they would be so indiscreet as to act in some way that someone else might discover.Was this all that Jaime, his treasured heir, had left him: a pile of shit to clean up?

“Varys, please escort the boy somewhere secure.I’d like to speak with you alone.”

When Varys returned a few minutes later and perched on the chair the boy had just been occupying, Tywin sighed.“How much information did the boy find?”

Varys shook his head.“He was looking at Jaime’s service records, and I suspect he must have some other information that led him to them, but he wouldn’t say what it was.”He paused, and looked at Tywin carefully before continuing.“Your Grace, you’ve known me long enough to know that I mean no disrespect…”

Tywin knew where this was going, and waved his hand.“Out with it, Varys.You’re too useful to punish.”

The spymaster sighed.“I’ve suspected this for some time, Your Grace, especially after I intercepted a few letters.”

Tywin nodded.This was how the legacy he had tried to build would come crashing down on his own head: his own children’s stupidity.Jaime’s death had left behind nothing but disaster.How ironic, that he had always assumed it would be Tyrion who would heap the most shame on the Lannister name.

He could guess what the letters must have contained; and if his children were stupid enough to send such letters through official military channels, then he could only imagine what other correspondence must be floating out there, ready for grasping hands to seize.

“Who has access to this information, Varys?”

“I’m not sure yet - but perhaps the best course of action would be to speak with the Targaryen girl herself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Iron Islands in this are basically a fictionalized version of the Hebrides.
> 
> I don't have any historical basis for embedding Jon in a Russian unit, but Tormund definitely had to be a Russian officer, and they had to meet, so here we are!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for more Littlefinger ickiness.

Every once in a while, Tywin felt a slight pinch of guilt that he kept Sansa so deeply in the dark about so many things. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to trust her; in fact, she was quickly proving her worth as a sharp and intelligent companion. But he was still wary of her powerful emotions; the way her love for her family could sometimes blind her to what was in their long-term best interest. In many ways, she was still a child, learning the game of politics and intrigue, and he couldn’t yet rely on her to not react to certain information he kept from her in a way that was counterproductive.

It created a rift between them, to be sure - something that hung over both their heads every time they were together, and he wondered if she felt that tension, too. If she understood that he was keeping secrets from her that would, at some point, come crashing down on both their heads.

One of those secrets was going to come out sooner rather than later, because, if nothing else, something needed to be done to protect his grandchildren from the mess his daughter and her husband had dug themselves into.

Sansa had astutely noticed that the Baratheons were in a great deal of debt to him - a debt that, as he had pointed out to her, he had no intention of letting slide. And that debt was only growing as the Targaryen girl - who hadn’t shown her face in public again since that eventful ball - used her allies - and it appeared she had some powerful ones - to destroy the Baratheons' shipping interests. Where before, every other ship that sailed out of Plymouth profited his son-in-law, now barely a fifth owed anything to Robert, and soon, he wagered, the number would dwindle to nothing. The Targaryen girl was a master manipulator, Tywin had to admit, and it was only a matter of time before the country's shipping behemoth met its ruin.

And ultimately, he didn’t care if it did. His son-in-law was a degenerate and a fool (something that, had he known it prior to their marriage, would certainly have stopped him from consenting to the match, however powerful the Baratheon family was at the time) and his grandson would be even worse as Duke, judging by the boy’s current behavior, and how poor a job Cersei did at curbing his worst tendencies. No, the Baratheons were a lost cause, and it was all he could do now to shore up himself and his own against the worst of the damage- especially now that he knew that someone had access to his degenerate children’s secret, which threatened to bring his grandchildren down along with them.

“Father?”

Ah. She had answered his summons. Good. He usually didn’t bring personal business to his chambers at Parliament, but he had wanted to keep this quiet from Sansa, at least until everything was finalized.

“I don’t have time for a long discussion, so I’ll make this brief. I’ve obtained your husband’s approval,” (and, in fact, he had; it wasn’t difficult to obtain Robert’s consent for anything, as long as you found him drunk enough, which was very often the case) “on a wedding contract for Myrcella.”

There was a pause, as Cersei took in the information. Then, her posture changed suddenly, as if she wanted to spring herself at him, and only the heavy desk standing between them was stopping her. “How dare you?” she screeched, and had he retained any sympathy for his incompetent daughter, he might have felt a bit of shame at her fury, “Myrcella is still a child! You can’t take her from me like this!”

He shook his head. As much as he wanted to keep his sweet granddaughter around as company for Sansa, and as much as he knew that it would be painful for the girl to be taken away from her mother and sent away at such a young age, he also knew what was coming, and he knew that Myrcella could still be protected from it if he acted quickly. “I can, and I will. She is old enough to be courted, with the guidance of a proper chaperone, whom I have arranged for, and I intend to send her to her betrothed’s estate immediately.”

Cersei screamed, of course, and cried, but Tywin knew he had made the right choice. The Spanish count he had found was young and, by all accounts, a decent man - a good match for his darling granddaughter - and while she was still somewhat young to be married off, he intended to get her out of her mother’s grasp before the Baratheon family fortunes began to crumble around them. And if it solidified the alliance with the Spaniards who were some of their strongest allies against Napoleon in the West, then all the better.

***

Yara Greyjoy was clearly still upset by the disappearance of her brother. She never mentioned him, unless she was speaking directly to someone involved in a mission to retrieve him, but Lord Jorah Mormont could tell from her longer-than-usual silences, and the way her eyes often shifted to the door of the rented rooms they were using as their makeshift offices, as if she were hoping for news.

She was still efficient in her work, of course; perhaps even more efficient than she had been while Theon was still at her side. At this point, due in large part to Yara’s threatening, cajoling, and bribery, not a single ship going out of Storm’s End, Plymouth, or anywhere else in the southwest, would take Baratheon cargo. It was only a matter of time before their enemies’ trading empire fell completely.

This was a task they had begun years before, long before Lady Daenerys had made her first public appearance in London. Before their group had left St Petersburg, even, in those last years of exile, when Daenerys had begun to chafe at living abroad, in a country where the majority of the population were treated little better than slaves. He vividly remembered those long conversations that would last late into the night, when she would rage at the treatment the serfs received at the hands of the nobles, and he would long to put his arms around her and comfort her. Of course, he hadn’t: he had known even then that his touch would not be welcome; that a Duchess would never marry a disgraced Baron’s son.

Sometimes he felt shame at his desires; after all, he had taken up his position as her protector not long after she arrived in Russia as a young girl, her family murdered and the murders neatly covered up as deaths from disease, her the only survivor, whisked away by a faithful servant. He had found them living in miserable squalor, since they had run with no allies, no resources; the servant had died soon after, leaving the girl alone in his care. He shouldn’t lust after her, he knew, this girl he had essentially raised, and yet he did.

And there was no guarantee that someone might not arrest him, now that he was back home in Britain. The warrant on his head for smuggling was still active, and it was only the fact that he hadn’t announced himself at the Baratheon party, he thought, that was currently keeping him safe. But the Baratheons and their allies weren’t stupid; it was only a matter of time before someone figured out who he was, and he was hanged.

Daenerys didn’t need a man like him; and yet that didn’t stop him from loving her.

The Greyjoys, on the other hand, were excellent allies, from the moment they had arrived in St. Petersburg. They had been exiled from the Iron Islands by their vicious uncle, who had thought that cozying up to British rule would be the best way to gain power for himself, regardless of the needs and interests of the people he wanted to rule. Now, the Greyjoy siblings were out for their own revenge, both for their own sakes and for Daenerys’s. Their tactics had been swift, effective, and discreet, extending their influence over the local merchants even as the Baratheons struggled to figure out what was happening to their profits; who their true enemy was.

He looked over at her now, the object of his affections, the subject of every one of his daydreams and fantasies, the girl he loved above all else, and reminded himself once more that he could not have her. She sat behind her desk, a cheap thing that some solicitor must have sat at before they rented these rooms, and yet she still looked regal, a true Duchess, a noblewoman where he was barely clinging to the scraps of respectability by virtue of his name, and little else. And yet still, he imagined going up to her now, putting his arms around her, pulling her lips up to his…

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door being kicked open, to reveal a bizarre little group: Theon Greyjoy (at whose appearance Yara stood, although she did not react otherwise) in irons, being dragged into the room by the Duke of Casterly Rock, and his spymaster, Lord Varys.

They were followed by a distressed-looking Missandei, who must have attempted to prevent them from barging in unannounced. “Your Grace,” she announced, her voice slightly breathless and harried, “the Duke of Casterly Rock to see you.”

The Duke strode in without waiting for an invitation from Daenerys, and seated himself in front of her desk. A power move if there ever was one, Jorah thought wryly as he watched Lord Varys, still holding Theon’s arm tightly, maneuver to a position standing behind the Duke.

Daenerys did not mince words. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit, Duke?” She didn’t ask the obvious question - how had he found them? - because Lord Varys’ skills were legendary. Finding an unknown address in London would be no challenge for the Spider.

The Duke folded his hands in front of him, leaning forward to look closely at Daenerys. To her credit, she didn’t waver, meeting his gaze with poise and confidence. As Jorah knew she would - she was born for this role.

“A few weeks ago, you made what amounted to an open declaration of war against my daughter and son-in-law.Then, my daughter received an anonymous, threatening letter, and I found this man, who claims allegiance to you, rifling through confidential documents in the War Office.”He paused, looking her squarely in the eye.“Perhaps you aren’t aware of this, Lady Daenerys, given that you’ve only recently arrived here in London, but I am not a man to be trifled with.”

“Clearly not, Duke,” Daenerys quipped, her form of address for the powerful Duke making it clear she disapproved of his failure to recognize her claim in his own speech. “But your daughter and son-in-law stole my title from me, and I am here to get it back. And if your daughter and her reputation are to be casualties of this, then so be it.”

The Duke looked at her carefully. “It’s not my daughter’s reputation I’m concerned about. She’s gotten herself into this mess, and she can very well get herself out of it. But I have two sweet grandchildren, Myrcella and Tommen, whose names I will not have dragged through the mud for this. And he may be dead, but he is still a Lannister, and I will not have my son's name slandered, either.”

Jorah watched as his love, the woman he owed his allegiance to, examined the crafty old Duke. Finally, she spoke again. “And why shouldn’t I bring your family down along with the Baratheons?”

“Because if you want to win, then you want me as your ally, not your enemy.” The Duke said this simply, as a statement of fact rather than a threat. And Jorah didn’t doubt that the words were true.

“So that’s it, then?” Daenerys asked, her eyes flashing, the only sign that Jorah could see that she was losing her temper. “I just surrender the information I have in exchange for a vague promise of an alliance?”

The Duke laughed - a harsh, unpleasant sound. “No. You will give up the information you have in the knowledge that, should you choose to release it to the public, I will destroy you more thoroughly than you could ever hope to destroy my foolish daughter.”

He finally turned to Theon, whom he had ignored up to this point. “And, should you choose to make the choice I know you realize would be the most intelligent one, then I would return your little acolyte to your care. If not, I believe, Lord Varys, that we have plenty of grounds on which to hang him for espionage, do we not?”

Varys didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to; the threat was enough on its own.

Would Daenerys give up the advantage she had, just to secure Theon’s safety?

Then, slowly, the Duke’s gaze turned to Jorah, and Jorah’s heart stopped. Because he knew exactly what the old Duke would say next.

“And I imagine that the appropriate authorities would be very interested to know that you’re harboring another fugitive from the law. Varys, what would be the penalty for the smuggling charges Lord Jorah faces?”

“Death, Your Grace.” Varys’ face was completely still as he answered, betraying nothing.

Jorah didn’t dare look at Daenerys, but he could tell she was studying him.She knew, of course, that he had fled on smuggling charges, but perhaps it hadn’t occurred to her that the penalty would be so dire; that, should he return with her, he might quickly become a liability.

“I’ll lay this out for you simply, girl,” the Duke spat, his failure to use any type of formal address indicating that he now believed he had the upper hand, “you have two choices: you release whatever information you’ve gathered, and I destroy you; or you agree to hand it over, and keep it quiet, and I don’t turn your friends in to the proper authorities.”

Jorah could see Daenerys turning the problem over in her mind, looking for how she might be able to shift it to her advantage. He could also see the moment when she came to her decision. He found himself trembling in a way he hadn’t since his days fighting through the jungles in India a decade earlier, wondering what she would choose. Whether she would choose her dukedom - her birthright, that she had fought for years to regain - or her friends’ lives.

“I will not use the information I’ve found, as it relates to your son and your grandchildren.” Jorah felt some of the tension release from his body as he heard her words. Thank God. “But in exchange, you will not attempt to prevent me from destroying the Baratheons, by whatever means I find necessary.”

Jorah watched the Duke carefully. Would the old Lion accept this compromise? Did he honestly feel no loyalty to his daughter, that he would permit the last Targaryen to destroy her and her husband?

But the Duke nodded slowly.“Very well.But God help you,” he remarked carefully, finally, “if you see fit to betray me.”He rose then, apparently satisfied with the deal, as his spymaster unlocked the irons from a dazed-looking Theon’s wrists and followed the Duke out of the office.

***

Sansa hadn’t been snooping, exactly, when she found the letter in the Duke’s study. 

Father’s trial was fast approaching, and with the current tension still brewing between her and Robb, and Margaery still unreachable, and her husband reluctant to allow her out riding until the would-be assassin had been discovered, she was spending more time each day in the townhouse, working with the housekeeper to ensure that the accounts were in order. 

The Duke had even approved of copies of the main estate accounts from Casterly Rock to be sent to London for Sansa’s review, so that she might have a better overall idea of the position the dukedom was in.She appreciated the trust he must have in her, to allow her to be involved in his affairs in a way she was growing to understand that man women of the _ton_ weren’t.She missed having tea with Margaery, and dinner with her mother and brother, and being able to ride out in Hyde Park whenever she wanted, rather than only when the Duke was available, but she certainly wasn’t idle.

It had been in search of some estate documents that she had ventured into his study one afternoon while he was at Parliament. 

And the letter had just been lying on the desk, partly opened, with a seal that Sansa recognized, her stomach sinking, as belonging to the Clegane family.The family of the man that the Duke had sent after Arya.Had he discovered a body?Or had he just given up the search?

Hands trembling, Sansa opened the letter, and nearly screamed when she realized what it contained.

The letter was an update on the progress of a regiment through Portugal and central Spain. Apparently Clegane had been sending the Duke updates for some time now, and this one hadn’t yet been filed away.

Sansa’s heart nearly stopped when she read the words “Stark girl is still itching for a fight” because then there was then no doubt in her mind, it was Arya this man had found - and no one had made any effort to extract her from a _war zone_ , for God’s sake! And the Duke had known about this for months, it looked like, and had allowed her to believe her sister dead. Sansa sank down to the floor, clutching the letter and letting the tears finally fall.

And that was where the Duke found her, in less time than she might have expected, and so she could only assume that a servant had been sent to tell him his wife was in distress, and he had come back in the middle of whatever they were debating in the House of Lords to see to her. A thought that under other circumstances might have pleased her - except that now, she was furious with him.

He stooped down and knelt beside her. “Sansa,” his voice was what he might use to calm a frightened animal, and that made Sansa even angrier, “give me the letter.”

“You knew,” she accused, her voice quiet and filled with rage as she turned to face him squarely. “You knew exactly where my sister was, and you allowed us to believe she was dead. For months!”

“Yes, I knew. And I knew that, if I told you, you would insist that I order the Hound to bring her back, which he has repeatedly refused to do, despite my best attempts to convince him. Your involvement in the matter would have been counterproductive.”

Her surprise momentarily cut through her anger. “You allow your servants to simply defy you?” That didn’t sound like the Tywin Lannister she was familiar with.

He grimaced.“Generally speaking, no, but this particular man is useful enough that I tolerate some behavior in him I wouldn’t in less competent men.And besides, with everything else we have to contend with, I don’t have enough men to send out to fight the Hound and drag your sister back here, so I considered this - leaving her under his protection - to be the best solution currently available to me.”

“And so, instead of telling me this, you allowed me to believe my sister was dead.”

“I never said anything of the sort. I merely told you the search had not been successful. Which it hasn’t: Arya Stark is not yet home.”

Her anger returned to her then at full force.Not only had her husband not bothered to tell her about her sister; he hadn’t regarded the subject as important enough to address with her at all.

“You pig!” she found herself screaming, and suddenly she was flying at him, filled with the need to harm, to break that calm facade and force him to acknowledge he had hurt her.“You bastard!”The foul language slipped off her tongue easily, just as her fist connected with his chest, as hard as she could.

He grabbed both her fists then, holding them tightly between the two of them. “Stop, Sansa. That’s quite enough.” His voice was sharp, but his expression was soft; almost sympathetic; almost contrite.

And then, before she could respond, he was pulling her into a fierce kiss.

Her anger didn’t diminish as he kissed her; quite the contrary. It was as if his kiss allowed her to pour her fury into coupling with him, rather than into violence - a result that felt satisfying in the moment, even if part of her knew it would only leave her feeling emptier in the end.

She tore at his clothing, even as he rucked up her skirt, and somehow one of them pushed the other down onto the floor - first him on top of her, then her flipping him over, grinding her palms into his shoulders, seizing control.

He didn’t try to take back the situation, and that’s how they coupled: her fully clothed body on top of his partly undressed one (waistcoat and shirt half unbuttoned, pulled out from his breeches, silk cravat hastily untied, breeches hanging open). Seizing him in a kiss, one into which she poured all of her rage and indignation and fear and hurt, she sank herself down onto him.

He let her control the moment - perhaps in an attempt to pacify her, perhaps because he found himself enjoying it - and she chased her own pleasure, using his body as he often used hers. As she approached her peak, his fingers reached between them and brought her to completion, at the same time that he found his own.

She pulled away from him, uncaring that it allowed his seed to spill onto his breeches, onto the fine carpet. He deserved it, this husband who had kept her from knowing the truth about her own sister.

Then, from where she knelt above him, she looked down at her husband’s face.

It was oddly intimate, seeing her stiff, formal husband lying on the rug beside her, looking utterly ravished and sated from what they had just done. At that moment, he looked less the powerful Duke and more like a young man who has just concluded an especially pleasant tumble with his young lover. The thought appeared in her mind, unbidden: he looked like the sort of man she could fall in love with.

And yet, she couldn’t forgive him. Not yet, at any rate. He had lied to her, no matter how he justified it to himself, and he had cut her out of something she had the right to know about.It had been foolish of her to imagine that he was beginning to respect her, or consider her an equal; this proved he thought of her as nothing but a silly girl.

She stood, and, with a few tugs to assure that her dress was respectable again, she strode out of the room without another word.

***

Ever since the disastrous defeat at Lützen a fortnight earlier, nothing had gone right for the Allied forces.Jon’s unit was only there to observe, to advise, to help as needed, as Stannis frequently reminded them, since the bulk of the British forces were tied up battling for each inch of soil in Spain.But it was difficult not to consider themselves full members of their unit, especially since their French nemeses wouldn’t spare them simply because they weren’t Imperial soldiers; no, if the Russian defenses fell, they would be just as dead as everyone else.

The Russian tsar and the Prussian king had ordered their armies to stop and hold the riverside town of Bautzen, which was, admittedly, a decent defensive position and a location that might encourage the Austrians, their border just a few miles away, to move from neutrality into supporting the Sixth Coalition. 

But Jon feared that they underestimated Napoleon, this man who had set his sights on conquering all of Europe. He had been battered, bruised, bloodied, and now he was ready to pay it back in kind, if he needed to hunt down every Russian, Prussian, and British soldier on the continent to do it. Jon could picture him: a short, proud figure astride a tall warhorse, orchestrating the artillery fire, ready to lead a charge up the hill and overwhelm the small town.

Napoleon had nearly twice the number of troops they had, and Jon knew even before the French artillery began firing that this would be a bloodbath.

Jon had never heard cannon fire before this campaign. It was the sound that was the most disconcerting: the low, hollow booming that rang across the river and then echoed back through the empty streets of the little town. The knowledge that, should one of those shells find you and your men, nothing would be left of you but a crater in the dirt (along with, perhaps, a few bloodied body parts and scraps of clothing and guts).

Jon watched as the rest of his unit - stationed in the town itself, at Prince Tormund's request - stood patiently, their guns at the ready. How could they be so calm, knowing they might be blown to pieces at any moment? And yet, watching the other men, Jon put on a mask of serenity as well. If they could stand tall before the intimidating sound of Napoleon’s artillery, then he could too.

It was hard to tell if it was truly hours before they saw the first French soldiers appear over the rise, or if it was only minutes in Jon’s battle-deranged mind. Almost as if his body was acting without his volition, he moved into formation, aimed, shot, loaded again, following Tormund’s barked orders, ignoring the way his mind screamed at him to run, to get out of the line of fire.

But there were too few of them, and too many Frenchmen - that was clear even to Jon’s addled senses - and it would only be a matter of time before they were overrun. Still, Jon forced himself to continue to aim, shoot, reload, and aim again, even as the air filled with smoke from their guns and screams of dying men on both sides.

It was only the feeling of something large and heavy landing on top of him that broke Jon out of his stupor. He looked up to find an angry redhead staring at him.

“What the fuck are you doing, standing here like an idiot? Tormund gave the order to fall back and reinforce the left flank! Move, you stupid redcoat!”

Oddly enough, Jon’s first thought was that he wasn’t in British uniform at all; he was wearing drab olive greens that were intended to blend in with the uniforms his Russian companions sported.

Then, slowly, as the foul-mouthed assassin pulled off of him and darted away down the street toward the river, his legs finally began to work, carrying him toward her diminishing figure and out of the immediate line of fire.

What followed then was a day and a half of hard fighting, the artillery still firing, from closer, once the French Marshal managed to set his guns up on a rise on this side of the river; cavalry charging, infantry with guns blazing, bayonets raised. A few times, Jon caught a glimpse of Ygritte’s distinctive red hair, but she must be busy on her own missions, even in the midst of battle, because she never seemed to stay in one place for long.

By the time Tormund had ordered a full retreat, late on the second day of the battle, Jon was so exhausted, he thought he might collapse before they made it to Löbau. And when the sky opened up, the rain soaking them all and the booms of thunder echoing the blasts of the cannons that had been ringing in their ears almost constantly for the last two days, Jon truly believed: this must be the end.

But Tormund found him, sagging, and dragged him up, a big smiled on the redheaded man’s face. “We may not have beat that fucker today,” Tormund announced gleefully, “but we survived, and we have lived to fight another day!”

***

It hadn’t been difficult to slip out of the Duke’s townhouse, once Sansa determined what she intended to do. She had feigned feeling tired, and then, when she was certain there was no one coming and her cloak disguised her sufficiently, she slipped down the servants’ stair and out the back door, which let her out right into the street.

From her correspondence, she was able to piece together the location of Lord Baelish’s townhouse, although she had no idea what the gentleman did during the day, and whether he might be home.

To her surprise, Lord Baelish himself opened the door. His eyes betrayed a moment of surprise, before he ushered her inside quickly and sat her down in the drawing room. No one came to offer tea, and Sansa soon grew suspicious. Did the man…not have servants? That was unheard of among gentry. It didn’t appear that he was impoverished - the furnishings were nice enough.

Then a thought occurred to her. Servants talked. Lord Baelish seemed to traffic in secrets, although she had yet to figure out who he was working for, if not solely for himself. If he commonly had unexpected - and inconvenient - visitors showing up, perhaps it made sense to avoid the hassle of maintaining servants’ loyalty by not keeping them at all. He must have people in the kitchen, and to draw his baths and fires, but perhaps that was it.

He waited for her to begin, to explain why she had sought him out, and suddenly she felt foolish. She hadn’t gone to Varys about this, because she knew he was too close to the Duke, that anything she told him would get back to her husband. But Varys had warned her about Lord Baelish, about his untrustworthiness, and still, here she was, reaching out to himbecause she needed someone to talk to.

Suddenly, her stomach sank: this had been a terrible miscalculation.

“Your Grace,” Lord Baelish finally demurred, forcing her to address the fact that, whatever the wisdom of her choice, she had, in fact, come here herself, “to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

She needed information, didn’t she?So perhaps the best way to turn this situation to her advantage would be to attempt to play his own game - to manipulate him right back, as he attempted to influence her for his own purposes.So she put on her most innocent, worried expression, and said, “My lord, I fear my husband has not been altogether honest with me.”

She could see the way he feigned surprise, concern, even as his manipulations clearly began. “What a terrible thing to discover, Your Grace. How may I be of help to you in this?”

“You are aware of the disappearance of my sister, Arya?”

Sansa knew with a fair degree of certainty that no one in the Stark family had informed Lord Baelish of Arya’s disappearance, and that they had attempted to keep the whole affair quiet, but she also felt fairly certain he had his own ways of discovering information such as this. His nod confirmed it.

“Yesterday evening, I discovered that my husband has known for months where my sister is, and had not told me.”

Lord Baelish raised an eyebrow then, and she was fascinated to discover that perhaps this was the extent of his knowledge. The Duke’s sources were separate from his, apparently.

But she didn’t want to tip her hand too much; reveal to him what she knew, or how; as angry as she was at her husband, the point of this was to learn something useful about Littlefinger, not to give up anything about herself.

So she decided to pull out the fragile, weeping woman. It wasn’t difficult to summon tears to stream down her face, to cry out feebly, “Oh, Lord Baelish, what shall I do?”

And all of a sudden, he had his arms around her. “Sansa,” he cooed, “it’s alright. Shhh, it’s alright.” His hands ran through her hair, and then he used that leverage to tip her face up to his and kiss her. Not fiercely, but firmly enough to make a statement. To stake his claim.

And she let him, as much as she wanted to spit out the sour taste of him immediately.

“I did warn you,” he murmured after he pulled away, “that the Duke would not be your best marriage option. But you didn’t listen to me then.” He paused. “No matter. These things can be fixed.”

She didn’t move externally, didn’t flinch, but her mind whirred through the last few minutes, trying desperately to make sense out of Littlefinger’s latest revelation.There was clearly something deeper at play here than his dislike of her husband, and his comment about the Duke made her blood run cold.What did he intend to do? 

And yet, Lord Baelish had revealed more than he probably intended, so if she managed to maintain her composure, perhaps she could use this to her advantage. She had to learn more, if she could manage it without making him suspicious.

“How long, my lord?” she asked, allowing her voice to tremble just a little.“How long will I be trapped with this cruel man?”

His hand continued to run through her hair, leaving a chill in its wake. “Not long, my love. A few months, at most. Perhaps I can speed things up if needed.”

She kept careful control of her voice, knowing she desperately needed to avoid letting Lord Baelish know her true feelings.“No, my lord, that won’t be necessary.I will do my duty as wife until you set me free.”

He tipped her face to his once more, planted one more unpleasant kiss on her, and then pulled away. “Good girl. Now run along home, before he gets suspicious.”

Sansa nodded and rose, missing her husband’s gentle touch now more than ever.

***

It appeared now that failing to tell Sansa about her sister had been a miscalculation on Tywin’s part. He knew that, had he told her earlier, she would have demanded her sister’s return and that, given everything else that was taking place, would have been a problem. So he had chosen what he had believed was the best of several poor solutions - and it had backfired on him.

Even now, days later, he could still see the rage in her eyes as she walked out of his study, leaving him literally debased and dirty. It had taken longer than usual for Tywin to recover - to rise, right his own clothing, and return to Parliament - partly because, every step he took, wherever he looked, all he could see was the accusation in her eyes, boring into him.

They never spoke of it, just as they never spoke of what had happened at Casterly Rock, but it was clear to Tywin that Sansa was still angry with him, even several days after he found her in his office. She would still allow him into her bed at night, and she wouldn’t reject his advances - it was their responsibility to provide an heir for the dukedom, after all, and Sansa was nothing if not dutiful - but he hadn’t spent the night with her since she had discovered the truth about Arya, and relations between them in the daytime had grown cold and distant.

Now, as he lay alone in the Duke’s bedroom, mere feet from his wife (although she might have well have been miles away, for all he would have been able to reach her) he was willing to admit to himself that he missed their intimacy - not just the physical act of copulation, but what preceded and followed it. He missed waking up to feel her warm body in his arms, reassuring himself that she was still his. He missed the way she would sometimes turn toward him in the middle of the night, wanting, needing, begging for him to take her again - a request he would readily oblige. She was no longer soft, in this silent battle they found themselves locked in: she was hard, and unyielding, and turned away from him the moment her duty was done.

He imagined her in the next room. Was she sleeping easily, without him crowding her? Was she glad to have her husband, practically an old man, leave her alone? Or did he dare to imagine that she missed him sometimes, too?

That seemed doubtful, given what Varys had reported a few days ago.According to the spymaster’s little birds, Sansa had willingly gone to Littlefinger a few days after their argument.Varys couldn’t tell Tywin what they had talked about, so his mind filled in all manner of scandalous subject matter.He could imagine the filthy baron’s hands on his wife, and a part of Tywin that was not even concerned with lineage and purity, but with something else entirely, reared its ugly head.

And yet, even years out of the habit of dealing with women, with lovers, Tywin knew that he shouldn’t confront his wife about Littlefinger; that a confrontation would only make matters between them worse.He simply had to trust that she was not foolish enough to betray him, at least in the ways he could so readily imagine; that she would come back to him eventually, after she had spent her anger; that they could rebuild what his failure to be honest with her had allowed to crumble.

He wasn’t a saint.He took what she offered him, but he always found himself desiring more: not just her body, but her mind, her emotions; all of her.

***

The largest boat Arya had ever been on was a river boat, back North, so the ship their regiment had taken from Kent to Lisbon had felt immense.She had loved standing on the deck, watching the ship pitch in the waves, rocking with the swells as the prow cut through them, making inexorable progress toward the Iberian Peninsula, where war had been going on for years; where she would finally make her mark on the world and prove herself to be a real soldier.

“You’re much too excited about this,” Sandor Clegane - the Hound, she had learned he was often called - had once scoffed from beside her.

Arya had only laughed in response.

Now, though, she wondered whether she had failed to fully anticipate the implications of her decision. Because what they found on the Peninsula was not glorious or exciting at all; it was equal parts deadening and heart-breaking.

The march from Lisbon was long and dull and not at all what Arya had been expecting. As soon as her group of newly trained soldiers had arrived and joined their new regiments, General Wellington had ordered everyone to march for Burgos - some regiments by traveling through the mountains of northern Spain, and others by traveling fast over open country to come around the main forces of _el rey intruso_ and outflank them in a huge pincer movement.

And for that to happen, the soldiers in Arya’s unit needed to march over miles of flat terrain that were quickly growing close to unbearably hot as summer approached.Arya itched to fight; she itched to see battle, to accomplish something more than moving men and goods across what felt like an endless landscape. 

But the landscape itself was a reminder that glory wouldn’t be all Arya would find in battle.Much of the land was burnt out from the nearly five years of fighting that had taken place here, as one side took land from the other before being chased back into their strongholds again.Many of the people looked close to starvation, their crops and animals destroyed by the constant fighting.Many a village church was in ruins after soldiers from one side or the other had taken refuge in it.

And still, amidst the boredom of endless marching, there was constant fear.Reports would come in daily that Joseph Bonaparte’s forces had been spotted in one location or another, and the soldiers had to be ready for a surprise attack at any moment.When the alarm was sounded, Arya observed that the veterans, the soldiers who had been engaged in this back and forth, this dance of conquest and loss, for years, would simply sigh and hoist their weapons a little higher on their shoulders, prepared for battle but expressing no emotion about it.So many years of war had broken their spirits, she thought.

The one bright spot was the friendship Arya had struck up with Lady Brienne and her companion, Podrick. Lady Brienne was tall and powerful enough that she made a convincing soldier, and Arya hadn’t guessed her secret until Lady Brienne had revealed it herself, one night after everyone else had retired to their tents. Lady Brienne hadn’t seemed surprised, however, when Arya had revealed her own secret, so she had to assume that it was only the chaos of the march and the negligence of their commanding officers that kept Arya from being discovered and sent back home.

The Hound’s vigilance had contributed too, of course. Ever since he had agreed to let Arya stay on as a soldier, he had been her constant protector, guarding her and teaching her to fight in that gruff way of his. The other soldiers in their regiment seemed to find it charming, the small boy who barely looked big enough to fight getting on so well with the giant, scarred man.

Arya thought she understood the horror of war, marching through the countryside and seeing the damage that battle had wrought there. But it wasn’t until they arrived in Salamanca, which the Allies had taken back from the French the year before, that Arya thought she finally understood what her father had meant, when he talked about the last days of the war in the Americas, when he had been sent, as a green young officer, to fight in the last bloody stages of the war in Virginia. He had said that the ground itself seemed to bleed, and to heave under the weight of all the bodies it held.

The British camp outside Salamanca fit that description perfectly. Here they found men who had been brought as French prisoners of war the year before; left behind when the French fled a few months later. Many of them still hadn’t healed from the injuries they received in battle, or suffered from illnesses they had contracted while in captivity, and Arya cringed at the sight of the first wounded men they encountered.

Unfortunately, the Hound saw her flinch, which made him adamant that Arya needed to see the consequences of battle first-hand.

“How are you going to go into your first battle prepared,” he said, grabbing her arm and pushing her toward the first tent, “if you’ve never seen a man with his leg blown off?”

Arya shuddered at the thought, but she dutifully followed him inside the makeshift infirmary tents, each one filled with more groans and screams than the last.Brienne and Podrick accompanied them, perhaps because Brienne also seemed to have grown protective of Arya in the time they had been marching together, and she could never go anywhere without Podrick following behind her, a silent shadow.

The Hound led Arya here and there, and showed her how to change bandages; how to clean wounds; when to leave a suffering man alone, lest she hurt him worse than he already had been. The sight was awful, and this was months after these men had been wounded; what would it be like when the wounds were fresh from battle?

It was the Hound, though, who nearly jumped when they reached one bed and he pulled back the sheet to reveal the man’s face.

“What is it?” Arya demanded, her rag already dipped in the water bucket she was carrying and ready to wash the man’s wounds.

The man was unconscious, but the Hound whispered anyways. “That’s Jaime Fucking Lannister.”


	11. Chapter 11

Sansa had barely said two words to her husband in over a week.It was grating on him, the way she politely and coldly avoided conversation, nodded curtly when he asked her a question, accepted his presence in her bed with an air of barely concealed disgust.

So when Lord Varys unexpectedly provided Tywin with a means to begin to repair what he had broken with his wife, he seized it without hesitation.

“Lord Brandon Stark, I presume?” The boy who sat in front of Tywin’s large desk at the War Office could be none other: Tully blue eyes, Ned Stark’s jutting chin, legs dangling useless beneath him from a childhood illness he had barely survived. But despite his young age, the boy’s gaze was severe and unyielding. There was a great deal of Sansa in him, Tywin thought with satisfaction.

“I’ve asked Lord Varys to return me to my mother and brother. So why am I here, Your Grace, in the War Office?”

Blunt, too, and a bit too brave, Tywin thought - something else this boy had in common with his sister. “Because you and I have some things I’d like to discuss first. Then you will be returned to your family, as promised.”

The boy didn’t respond. He simply watched, through those large, expressive eyes of his.

“Lord Varys told me his agents located you, in the company of a Northern woman, outside London. How did you get there?”

The boy’s response was sullen, but he gave it nonetheless. “Osha got me out of the place they were keeping us. She carried me south, and we survived off the land, as best we could.”

The woman had _walked_ south? With the boy on her back? Now that was a surprise. “How long did it take you to get here?”

The boy scrunched up his face slightly in concentration. “A month? Maybe longer.”

Dear God, Sansa’s brother had been traveling for a month, and none of Varys’s spies had picked up on it? Then again, the spymaster’s internal network was weak outside London, with most of his people deployed in Paris and the other major European capitals, gathering military intelligence rather than information on missing boys. He really couldn’t fault his spymaster for that.

“Where’s your brother?”

The boy’s face fell. “We were separated soon after they took us. Osha didn’t know where they were keeping him.”

Tywin nodded, then turned to Varys, who prompted, “My lord, if we are going to find Lord Rickon, then we will need to know everything you can tell us about your captors. Who were they? Where did they take you?”

The little Stark lord only shook his head. “They obscured their faces, and I recognized no voices. The only clue I can offer is that I heard one of the newer servants - Myranda, I think it was - speaking with someone I didn’t recognize right before Rickon and I were dragged from our beds.”

Tywin looked over at Varys, who nodded.He would be pursuing this lead at once, Tywin assumed, as soon as orders could be sent to his agents in the North.And Varys would also try to get any information he could from the woman who had brought Sansa’s brother here - short, perhaps, of violence, since she had, after all, been the one who had rescued the boy from captivity.

Then the Duke's gaze returned to the boy who sat silently, patiently before him. “Whatever Lord Robb tells you, I would like to assure you that I have significantly more resources available to devote to the search for your brother, Rickon.” He paused, to allow his words to sink in. “If anything else occurs to you - even something small - please let me know immediately.”

The boy nodded gravely, and it was then that what Tywin had been hoping for occurred: Sansa burst into the room, and bent down to seize her brother in a tight embrace. By the time she pulled away, there were tears streaking her cheeks, and he knew that, while all might still not be forgiven, he was now on the path to redemption in her eyes.

***

Sometimes, Sansa thought it would be easier if she could just hate her husband.If he were an irredeemable villain, someone she could feel nothing but contempt and anger toward; if she could separate her duties as wife from her emotions.It was easy, when she discovered unpleasant truths about him, to feel anger surge through her and ignore the possibility that she might be growing to feel something approaching affection for him.

But then he would do something so impossibly thoughtful - like when he sent her that note, telling her to come quickly to the War Office, only for her to find Bran there waiting.He had known, without needing to ask, that being the first person from her family to see her younger brother, safe and sound, would go a long way toward allowing her to forgive Robb and her mother.He had known that, and he had given that to her, not because it benefitted him, but because he knew it would make her feel better.

She tried to remind herself that she hated him for not telling her about Arya; that he was a beast and a liar and she was better off spending her days without his company; but part of her still missed him.Part of her longed for his strong arms around her while she slept, for the way he made her feel when she allowed herself to surrender to the pleasure he offered her.

He came home for dinner, the evening of the day he had found Bran, as if he knew that bringing her brother home had opened a gap in the armor she wore to protect herself from him, and he was determined to widen it as much as possible.He didn’t initiate conversation, and, of course, neither did she, but nor did he bring any papers to the table; he simply sat there, observing her as he ate, in that slow, patient, utterly unnerving manner of his.

When he brought her to bed, it was not slow or patient at all. His lips met hers fiercely, and it made her realize that he hadn’t kissed her at all, not since she had found out about Arya. It was as if he had been biding his time, waiting for an opportunity, and now that he had found it, he would do everything he could to force her to take him back.

“Sansa,” he breathed hard against her lips, as he sank into her and his fingers found that spot that gave her so much pleasure. He was not taking her softly, gently, and she didn’t want him to. She needed this as much as he did - this release from their standoff, this return to something resembling a real marriage.

“Tywin,” she groaned back, his mouth swallowing the syllables before they escaped into the room.

“Let me in,” he said suddenly, demanding, imploring, and she knew it had nothing to do with their physical bodies; he wanted to be allowed back into her heart.Back into her life.

She paused, and he held himself above her, breathing heavily.Being honest with herself, she would love nothing more than to brush what stood between them aside, to imagine that everything was fixed, but “I don’t know if I can,” she whispered, needing him to see that she couldn’t just forgive him because he asked her to, because she wanted to return to the way things had been before.“You hurt me, Tywin.”

His hand reached up to cup her cheek. “I know, dearest,” he responded, his words barely audible, his voice almost unrecognizably gentle.

Her eyes met his, and she wanted to tell herself there was something softer in them now.Something more human, less cold and severe. 

He said nothing more; he would not apologize, she knew, and he could not promise not to hurt her again, for they both knew that would be a lie.

“Can we live like this?” she wondered, half to herself, watching him as he strained to stay still inside her, waiting for her answer. “Without knowing we can trust one another? With secrets and lies between us?”

He grunted quietly, and she knew it was out of frustration, because he still didn’t believe he had done anything wrong; didn’t think he had lied to her at all.And maybe that was the part that would destroy them, more than anything else: the fact that he still couldn’t understand how his actions had hurt her.

After a moment, it seemed, he grew tired of waiting.“You’re mine, Sansa,” he growled, sliding one hand beneath her leg to lift it higher and draw himself deeper inside her, using his fingers between them to drive her nearly mad.“You’re mine, and I won’t let you go,” he muttered, as if by sheer force of will alone, he could improve their marriage; as if all that was needed now was for him to restate his possession of her, and he could be assured of her cooperation.

She didn’t invite him to stay, after he had spent himself thoroughly inside her, and pleasured her so completely, she was too limp to do anything but curl up in his arms. But he stretched out beneath her regardless, wrapping his arms around her, and she couldn’t help the little moan of contentment that escaped her when she had settled into his warmth.

They were silent for a while, their breathing slowing as they came down from a coupling more passionate than any they had experienced in weeks; his arm gently stroking hers as she listened to his heart beat beneath her ear.

Then, finally, he spoke, and immediately, she was tempted to order him out of her bed once again.

“Myrcella will be leaving for Spain in a week.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in.But as they did, it wasn’t even sadness that came with them; it was a deep feeling of emptiness that settled in Sansa’s stomach and began to crawl through her body like a poison of the blood. With Margaery still absent, Sansa’s friendship with Myrcella was one of the few bright points in her life now, and her husband was ripping that, too, away from her.

But she didn’t respond immediately, even as she felt anger brewing within her again.She knew how he operated: he would let the silence stretch between them and allow her to lose her temper, putting herself at a disadvantage.As furious as she felt, she would not cede the upper hand so easily.She didn’t physically move away from him, but she could feel her body stiffen, and she knew he could feel it, too.She didn’t need to speak for him to understand her reaction.

After a while, he spoke again.“She’s betrothed to the son of one of our strongest allies, Count Doran Martell.”

She sensed now that this was all the explanation he would give her, unless she pushed him.So she pushed him.

“I suppose I should be grateful,” she remarked, keeping her voice as even as possible, “that my _benevolent_ husband should see fit to inform me of my bosom friend’s departure prior to the event itself.After all, precedent would suggest that you might give me then news when she’s halfway across the Channel."

“Sansa,” he growled, turning so he was once again on top of her, pinning her hands in his own, reasserting his dominant position.

But she refused to be cowed. “No, _Tywin_ ,” she practically spat his name, “we’ve just established how I feel about being kept in the dark, and now you’re bringing up something else you’ve kept from me? I was a fool, to think we might someday enjoy true intimacy, when it appears that you have no interest in sharing anything with me, aside from my bed.”

Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to have him gone, for him to leave her in peace. She shoved against him, her fingers scrabbling for purchase so she could escape his strong grip and throw him out of her chambers, bodily if she had to.

But he responded in kind, pressing his legs into hers to immobilize them, strengthening his grip on her hands, keeping her pinned beneath him and making it impossible for her to flee. Finally, he ground out, “Are you ready to converse as adults, or do you insist on continuing this childish behavior all night?”

“That’s rich,” she growled, unwilling to allow him the upper hand in the argument, even if he had it in the physical fight, “considering you’re the one resorting to brute force when the discussion doesn’t go your way.”

“Fine,” he replied, his teeth still gritted with the effort of keeping her immobilized beneath him, “We’ll talk like this. I assumed that you would understand that I love Myrcella more than nearly anyone else on this Earth,” (and suddenly, she found herself wondering who else was included in that number, no matter how she tried to ignore the question) “and I am sending her away for her own good, as much as it pains me to have her leave us.”

There was silence for a moment, before Sansa finally gave in. He wanted her to ask, and she couldn’t stand it anymore; she did. “Then tell me, Tywin: why is this for her own good?”

She had lost the energy to struggle much against him, so he shifted her hands into one of his own and ran the other hand down her cheek, watching its progress carefully without looking her fully in the eyes. “Because, despite what I have done to attempt to prevent it, I suspect that a terrible scandal is about to come down on the heads of Cersei and her children, and I want Myrcella as far away from London as possible when it breaks.”

She watched him for a long moment, before she sighed and turned away from his gaze. “You seem to think me a fool, Tywin.”

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he let her continue without interruption.

“Had you told me of this earlier, when you first broke the news; had you explained it this way at the start; I would have agreed with you.We both love and want what’s best for Myrcella, and the chance to build a life for herself out from under the shadow of scandal would be worth the pain of separation.”She looked at him again.“I, of all people, should know that.”

Finally, his grip on her hands loosened, and she rolled away from him, curled up on her side. He made no move to come closer, and she could only assume he had rolled over to lie on his back a handsbreadth away from her; she could still feel the warmth coming off of his skin, although she couldn’t feel his touch itself.

“Tywin,” she began again, finding it easier to talk when she didn’t have to look at him, “contrary to what you seem to think, I’m not an irrational creature. I understand the concept of making sacrifices for the sake of those we love, for the good of the long-term - perhaps better than many women of my age and status. But I’m your wife. I deserve your trust, and your confidence. And the fact that you continue to hide things from me, a week after we went through this with Arya, is difficult to take.”

She felt his arms close around her waist then, tugging her into the curve of his body, and she let him. She was tired of fighting; not just this fight, but the battle that had been raging between them since she found out about Arya.

“I want to trust you,” he murmured, and as much as she wanted to ignore it, she could hear the emotion in his voice. “I want to be able to confide in you. But you’re so young, Sansa, and what we’re facing is so much larger than the things you’re used to. And the stakes are higher.”

“So talk to me,” she said, feeling tears finally creep into her eyes as her anger gave way to aching pain. “Tell me what you’re doing, and tell me why. Teach me how to play the game, Tywin, instead of leaving me to guess.”

She could feel him kiss down her neck, his hands run down her bare sides, but he didn’t answer immediately. Finally, he sighed, and she could tell, when he spoke, that it took great effort on his part. “Give me time, Sansa. I’ve been alone for a long time; I’ve spent years trusting no one but Varys. Be patient with an old man.”

In another mood, Sansa might have teased him about his “old man” comment; might perhaps have reached down between them to ascertain precisely how old he claimed to be; but tonight she simply snuggled up against him, and accepted it. 

She could pretend, at least for a little while, that she believed him, that he would actually try to change, even though she knew the truth: the truth was, her trust meant nothing to him.

***

Knowing the reason behind her husband’s decision to send Myrcella away didn’t make their farewell, a week later in the drawing room in the Lannister townhouse, any less painful.

Sensitive and sweet as always, Myrcella whispered as she pulled away from Sansa’s embrace, still grasping her hand, “I’ll miss you terribly, Sansa.”

“And I you, my dear friend.” Sansa could feel tears threatening to spill, but she would not make this any more difficult for the younger girl than it needed to be.As unpleasant as Sansa found Cersei, Myrcella would be bidding her mother farewell next, and she knew that would not be easy for either of them.

She gripped her friend’s hand tightly and forced a smile onto her face.“But I trust that the man the Duke has chosen will be a good husband to you, and you will be happy in the south.”

Shireen clasped Myrcella’s other hand, and giggled, “And just think of how much time you’ll spend in the sun, eating oranges and drinking Dornish wines…”

Myrcella made a face. “And how tan my skin will become, from all that time in the sun.”

Sansa laughed, and squeezed her friend’s hand. “You will look lovely, Myrcella, no matter how much time you spend in the sun. And I’m certain you will charm your husband-to-be from the moment he meets you.”

Myrcella looked at her two companions seriously, as she moved to pull away, both of them aware that their time was quickly running out.“You will come visit me, won’t you?Once I’m settled in, and the war is over?”

How impossibly sweet and optimistic dear Myrcella always was!Sansa knew Napoleon was being pushed back out of the east, but the war in Spain had been dragging on for years, and she saw no indication that it was anywhere near flagging.But she agreed nonetheless; she wouldn’t dash her friend’s hopes.“Of course we’ll visit you, sweet girl.As soon as it’s safe to travel.”

Shireen pressed a kiss to her cousin’s cheek, and then she was gone, her golden curls bouncing behind her as she descended the front stairs and moved out of their lives, at least for the foreseeable future.

When the drawing room was quiet, Sansa looked over at Shireen, an idea slowly beginning to bloom.“Shall we visit my mother for tea this afternoon?I don’t believe you’ve met my younger brother, Bran.”

***

“We need allies.”

Hearing Daenerys voice the concern herself lifted a small weight off Lord Jorah’s chest. He had brought it up soon after they had first arrived in London, but she had become so focused on the Greyjoys’ attempts at sabotage that his suggestion had been mostly ignored.

But now, it seemed, she understood. They could bleed the Baratheons until they no longer had a single ha’penny, but that wouldn’t matter unless they could convince someone to accuse the Duke of murder and try him in the House of Lords. Otherwise, he would squat over his two titles forever, growing fat and drunk on the riches he had ripped from her family’s ancestral lands.

“Have you given any thought to which lords you might approach, Your Grace?”

She shuffled through some notes on her desk - presumably intelligence she had gathered on Britain’s aristocracy. “I had considered the Tyrells. I doubt they have any true desire to marry their daughter to Lord Joffrey. But I doubt they would be willing to risk the exposure of their son’s secret without an excellent reason.”

“Have you considered the Duke of Riverrun, perhaps, or the Eyrie?”

Daenerys made a face. “The Duchess of Winterfell is a Tully, and I doubt her father would agree to support my bid while she’s still waiting on her husband’s fate. And we’ve all heard the stories about Lysa Arryn.”

Jorah nodded. His suggestions hadn’t been excellent ones, and he certainly knew it, but if they could enlist a powerful backer - ideally a Duke - their case would be much more likely to actually reach the floor of the House of Lords.

Of course, Dukes were few and far between. Based on their last meeting with him, the Duke of Casterly Rock certainly wasn’t an option, and the Starks were too involved in their own trial to bother with Daenerys’ claim. That didn’t leave many other options.

“Perhaps we should reconsider Lord Baelish’s offer.”

Jorah shuddered. He had been trying to avoid that: he knew enough to be wary of the Baron, however tempting the offer he had presented, when he had stopped by a few weeks earlier, might be. There would be something attached; some price to pay for enlisting his help. Men like Baelish didn’t work for free.

He started to say so, started to suggest they look elsewhere, when the door swung open, revealing the Greyjoys, bruised and bloody, carrying a half-conscious Missandei between the two of them.

Greyworm nearly leapt out of his seat, and as far as Jorah could tell, it was only Daenerys’ calm, “What happened, Yara?” that prevented the man from rushing out the door immediately, in frantic pursuit of whomever had dared to harm his beloved.

Yara grimaced as she laid Missandei on the settee, where the young woman seemed to lose consciousness almost immediately. “We were attacked on our way back home. Five men, led by the largest creature I’ve ever seen. Theon and I were able to hold them off, but Missandei…” She looked over at their friend, the woman who had stuck by Daenerys from the moment they had met in St. Petersburg, who had been the voice of caution in a campaign that was often too full of enthusiasm. A woman well suited to correspondence and delicate words, but not to fighting a man three times larger than she was.

Daenerys looked pointedly at Greyworm, who seemed at this point to be prepared to rush out the door and take on a full division of the _Grande Armée_ , if it were likely to help Missandei. “I think we can guess who’s responsible for this. We send for a doctor, and then we determine how we can destroy her before she hurts any more of us.

After Greyworm and Yara had vanished down the stairs in search of a physician for Missandei, Jorah turned to the woman he loved. “Your Grace,” he began carefully, “have you perhaps considered using the information we have?” He didn’t want to suggest it - Lord knew he didn’t _want_ the Duke of Casterly Rock to come after him for his previous crimes - but not using the information they already had was ceding a major advantage to Cersei Baratheon, who seemed prepared to do almost anything in her quest to maintain her position.

Daenerys looked at him sharply. “Lord Jorah,” she replied, “are you suggesting that I sacrifice the lives of two of my comrades, for the sake of an easy blow against the Baratheons?” She shook her head. “I don’t imagine the Lannisters would be willing to back us in the House of Lords, but I do not want the Duke as my enemy." She sighed, her gaze returning to the papers scattered about her desk. "I believe our choice has been made for us. Send for Lord Baelish.”

***

The message from Varys arrived midway through the afternoon.Sansa had just returned from bringing Shireen to tea at the Stark townhouse once more, and she was pondering the shy smiles she had watched the Baratheon girl give her younger brother, and the way he had quietly watched her throughout when the messenger found her.

The note was short, only four words: “Jaime found.Come quickly.”

And suddenly, it didn’t matter that she was still resentful, suspicious, angry with him.Her husband needed her, and she would be there, no matter what state she found him in when she arrived.

She had only visited her husband at the War Office once before, the day Bran was found, but Varys met her carriage the moment she arrived, and she followed him through corridors filled with busy-looking men, a few of them giving her strange looks as she walked past, arm-in-arm with Varys.She suspected that the War Secretary’s personal life wasn’t a topic of great interest to his lackeys, and women didn’t often walk these halls.

When they reached Tywin’s office - sumptuous chambers on the second floor, overlooking a pleasant courtyard - her concern only grew.Her husband was hunched over his desk, a piece of paper clutched tightly in his hand - the letter that had brought the news, she assumed - and he was so still that, at first glance, she almost wondered if he had been struck dead on the spot.Then a low groan issued from where his mouth must be, and at least she knew he was still breathing.

She glanced over at Varys, who had positioned himself in the doorway, then carefully approached her husband, as if he were a wild animal she needed to be wary of.

“Tywin?” she murmured, when she had drawn close enough to rest a hand lightly on his shoulder. He started at the contact, but didn’t otherwise respond. “May I see the letter?”

Wordlessly, he moved the hand that held the crumpled piece of paper so it was within her reach, and she took it.She noticed immediately that it was from Sandor Clegane, and her anger over his deception about Arya threatened to rise to the surface - but she tamped it down, reminding herself that there was something more pressing at present than her need to indulge her anger.

As she read, the Duke’s dire reaction began to make more sense to her. Jaime had been among the British prisoners - many of them badly wounded or ill - liberated from a camp the French had abandoned in Salamanca. He was not conscious yet, as of the time of Clegane’s letter. His right arm had been amputated some time ago due to a battlefield injury, and the wound was infected.

So not only had the son the Duke believed was dead suddenly come back to life, but there was no guarantee that he would come home - and even if he did, the scars he bore from what he had endured would be visible all his life.The Duke had sent his son to war, and, if he returned at all, he would return, not a hero, but an invalid.A failure in the eyes of society.

She nodded to Varys again, and the spymaster immediately left the room and shut the door behind him.Then she allowed her arms to slide around her husband’s waist, kneeling beside his chair as she did.

She felt the moment he let go, and allowed her to support his weight, and she took it.Then, sensing that he needed her closer, she maneuvered herself into his lap, her arms around his neck and her lips running gently over his skin, soothing as much as she could even as the Duke remained stiff and unresponsive in her arms.

When her hand reached up to his cheek, to pull him closer, she found it wet. The Old Lion, her husband, was crying.

“Tywin,” she murmured, “I’m here, love.” She didn’t know where the endearment had come from, how it had slipped out, but she didn’t regret it.

It was a long time before he spoke. When he did, his voice was so fragile, it nearly broke Sansa’s heart. “I should have looked harder for him.”

She soothed a hand down his neck, across the back of his head, pulling him closer to her. “They told you he was dead. How could you have known?”

He shook his head, and she could feel the force of his frustration, his anger, his disappointment with himself in that gesture. “He’s my son. I shouldn’t have given up. And to find out he’s been alone, sick, unrecognized, far from home, for years; dear God, what a fool I’ve been.”

She held him against her, feeling strange comforting this lion, this man of iron, who never needed anyone except himself. “Tywin, it’s not your fault. You’ve been blessed with Jaime’s return. That’s all that matters now. You can’t blame yourself for not knowing.”

It was then that his lips found hers.

And everything broke loose and came crashing apart around them.

He hoisted her up onto his desk, his hands gentle and yet urgent, shoving her skirts up as he moved her, his lips never leaving hers. And, oh Lord, she needed his hands on her, on her waist, on her somehow-now-exposed breasts, on her face, on her hips.

When he finally shoved into her, scattering papers as she settled back farther on the desk to accommodate him, he filled her so completely that she couldn’t even remember what it was like to be without him.

There should have been something scandalous, something titillating about being taken by the War Secretary in his office, hordes of unsuspecting bureaucrats mere feet away as her husband, still completely dressed except for his manhood protruding from his breeches, took her hard, shoving her back, mauling her neck and chest with kisses and bites that would probably leave bruises.And yet she felt nothing but the sheer, overwhelming need to take what he was giving her, to provide as much comfort as she could and give him a channel in which to pour his grief.

“Mine,” he was muttering against her skin, almost angrily, aggressively, spitting the words into her as if he wanted to brand her with them.

And she let him.

When he finished, he pulled her back into his lap, smoothing her skirts down and pressing his forehead against hers.

She let him hold her for a long time without speaking; she didn’t know how long, but the light that filtered through the thick glass of the windows had become a duller shade of gray by the time she finally pulled his lips to hers and tenderly kissed him, her hand steadying itself on his cheek as his dug into her hips.

Finally, he pulled away and sighed, his eyes not meeting hers. "Forgive me, Sansa,” he breathed, and she looked at him strangely, because since when did her proud husband apologize? “I lost control. I should not have allowed myself to use you in such a crass way.”

She tugged his face back to hers. “I’m your wife, Tywin. If I can ease your suffering in some small way, allow me to.”

He kissed her then, long and slow, before pulling her to her feet. “Varys will bring you home. I’ll see you tonight for dinner?” The uncertainty in his voice was so alien, she wasn’t entirely convinced it was him speaking.

She squeezed his hand and kissed him on the cheek before turning and leaving him to the deathly silence of his office.


	12. Chapter 12

Tywin Lannister had long delayed going to visit the Duke of Winterfell in jail, not because he was concerned about what the man might do, but simply because he didn’t have any desire to spend an afternoon dealing with an irate father who hadn’t been consulted about his daughter’s marriage.

But with the trial fast approaching, Tywin had no choice, really. Varys had gathered information about what several of the witnesses were likely to testify to, and the two of them needed Ned Stark’s own responses to the information, in order to build a counter-argument. He was sorely tempted to send Varys, but he knew that he owed his wife this much: to make the visit himself.

As the guard let him into the cell that held the Duke of Winterfell, Tywin was glad to see that his intervention had secured Ned Stark a better-than-usual cell at Newgate. Unfortunately, the man himself still looked terrible. Tywin wondered how much of the aging the Duke of Winterfell appeared to have gone through - greying hair, sunken eyes, too-thin proportions -had been due to the physical privations of life in prison, and how much was from mental anguish alone.

And yet, when Tywin entered his cell, the man stood, wary. “Lannister,” he spat out, his tone flat and emotionless.

“Stark.” The Duke of Winterfell already owed his new son-in-law several favors at this point, but Tywin imagined that Ned Stark might see things differently. He would allow the other man to lead this encounter, at least to begin.

“Robb tells me you’ve wed my daughter.”

Tywin couldn’t help his reaction: the other man’s tone made it sound like he had thrown the girl over his shoulder like a sack and carried her away. “She gave her consent, Stark,” Tywin countered, his voice cold, “as did your son.”

“Shameful,” Ned Stark muttered, his voice now only a shadow of the booming tones that had once echoed through the House of Lords when he asked for aid for the North. “To prey on a young girl and her brother in the absence of their father.”

“Well?” Tywin growled back, acknowledging that, despite himself, he was quickly losing control of his temper. “Should I have left you to hang, then?”

“Better than marrying my daughter to a ruthless bastard like you!” From the hoarse tone, it sounded like Stark was doing his best to shout, although his voice was barely audible on the other side of the cell.

Challenge burning within him, Tywin advanced a step. “I treat your daughter as well as you could expect from any son-in-law. She has everything she could possibly want: gowns, jewels, her own household to run.”

Ned Stark stood for a moment, looking as if he would might respond angrily, but then he shook his head and turned away. “If you think that’s what Sansa wants, then you don’t know her at all.”

Tywin examined this man, his paradox of a father-in-law who was, in truth, several years younger than he was. What did Ned Stark want to tell him about his cherished daughter? They had been married for months now, but in some respects, he knew as little about Sansa now as he did when he first began courting her.

The fallen Duke shook his head sadly. “She enjoys pretty things, yes, but what she’s always longed for - what I’ve always wanted for her - is love.”

Love? Sansa? Tywin thought about his wife: practical, efficient, sharp; kind and dutiful when he wasn’t provoking her to anger. Her father thought she wanted _love_? The kind of love silly maidens sang songs about and read about in their novels?

The thought seemed ridiculous, and yet, the moment he began to consider it, it made sense. The way she looked at him sometimes, as if she wanted something more from him. The way she responded to their intimacy, snuggling against him and falling asleep on his chest as if she wanted nothing more from the world.

Was love truly what she wanted? His first thought was to dismiss the idea; to hope that it wasn’t true, that someone so idealistic hadn't truly been shackled to someone as hard-hearted as himself.

And yet, the more he thought about it, the more he thought that perhaps the possibility of falling in love with his wife wasn’t so ludicrous after all. It wouldn’t be so difficult to fall in love with Sansa Stark.

Tywin Lannister shook his head, leaving the question for another time. Right now, there were witness statements to contradict.

***

Theoretically, the morning had been a victory. The French had fled back in the direction of the border, leaving central Spain to the British. But the fact that they had been able to retreat in the first place - that the battle, even with the French surrounded and outnumbered, hadn’t been a rout - would presumably be a matter of discussion in the command tent this evening.

Arya found that she didn’t want to move. Her limbs felt weak and liquid, and her muscles screamed with every movement she tried to make; even staggering back down to the river to wash the dried blood off her skin was too much. The Hound had finally placed a large arm on her shoulders and pushed her down the hill, providing the propulsion she needed when her own muscles wouldn’t offer it.

“Have you finally discovered battle isn’t the glorious thing you thought it was?” His voice was surprisingly sympathetic. He wasn’t trying to prove a point; he honestly wanted to know what she thought.

She closed her eyes, and immediately heard the gunfire and the screams; felt her boots sink into the muddy ground as they forded the river, even as other men in their brigade fell beside her, red from their wounds merging with the red from their uniforms. The smell had been the worst, she thought: noxious fumes and the stench of blood and men shitting themselves as they died. Part of her never wanted to see it again.

“We made progress today, didn’t we?” That was the thought that kept her going. It had been miserable, but it had meant something - hadn’t it?

He shook his head. “I wish I could tell you that, but you know the truth: Wellington’s been fighting the same fucking battle back and forth across this peninsula for five fucking years. If this battle made a difference, it’s because the Russians and the Prussians are wearing Little Boney down on the other side of the continent, not because we did anything today.”

“Nonsense,” Brienne’s voice rang out from behind them. “The French no longer have a foothold on the peninsula, and to win it back, they would need reinforcements they don’t have. You did well today, Stark.”

Arya beamed at Brienne’s compliment. Then she heard the bushes rustling behind them, and turned to find Jaime Lannister had followed them, his balance looking awkward as he scuttled down the bank without the benefit of his right hand.

“At least _you_ could fight,” he grumbled, taking a seat on Arya’s other side.With the care that the Hound had finally gotten him - mostly by throwing the Duke’s name and coin around - Jaime was doing much better now, but he still couldn’t fight.His hand had been amputated soon after the Battle of Badajoz by a French physician who had no idea who he was.The doctor had been told to prioritize survival and nothing else, since no one cared about the state of the prisoners in an exchange, and removing the hand of the Lion Duke’s son had been the most expedient thing at the time..He had never talked about the year he had spent in the French prisoner of war camp, before he reverted back to the British when the French left Salamanca, and Arya wondered how much of it he actually remembered.

The Hound had suggested that Jaime return to London - it wasn’t as though anyone was going to forcibly keep a one-handed Duke’s son in the Army, and he couldn’t fire a gun with only one hand, anyways - but Jaime had refused. Perhaps out of shame at abandoning his post; or perhaps for some other reason entirely.

Brienne slapped him lightly across the head. “Stop complaining, you spoiled brat. You want to fight?”

He leaned forward, as if someone had just dangled a tantalizing sweet in front of his face.

“Have you ever used a sword?”

Even in the dimming afternoon light, Arya could see Jaime’s face light up. “You want to take on the greatest swordsman in Britain?”

Brienne scoffed. “Maybe you were when you were right-handed.”

***

Sansa had known something unusual was going on when Shae called at the townhouse. Sansa had never seen Shae outside the club, aside from their first meeting in Lord Tyrion’s carriage, and it was a bit jarring to see the woman dressed respectably and taking tea in the drawing room.

Her first words to Sansa, though, were what really shook Sansa to her core. “I’ve found Dontos Hollard.”

Sansa hadn’t really expected Varys to follow up with her about Hollard after she had told him about the tip, so the fact that Shae had investigated on her own and brought Sansa in on it made her warm with pride.

Perhaps if she hadn’t still been so frustrated with Tywin, if she had felt more confident about her father’s fast approaching trial, if she had felt like she could trust her husband to do what needed to be done, she wouldn’t have come up with the plan. It was reckless after all; she didn’t deny that.But as it stood, she needed information, and she was willing to do what had to be done to get it.

Mr. Hollard was a solicitor with a small office in Cheapside, which meant that he most likely would have a single clerk, with perhaps an occasional cleaning lady, and no other staff. Probably few clients, which would likely have appealed to whomever had hired him. All that would be needed would be to ascertain when the clerk left, distract the solicitor long enough to get a good look at his records, and get out before they were detected.

Shae agreed to the idea almost immediately, which surprised Sansa. But, then again, the owners of the Dwarves’ Den both believed that whoever was paying this Mr. Hollard also had something to do with the attacks on their employees and customers, and Shae was all too eager to gather some intelligence of her own.

There was something light-hearted about digging through Shae’s wardrobe at the Dwarves’ Den (Sansa still wasn’t certain she wanted to outright provoke the lion, per se, but she certainly wasn’t tiptoeing around him anymore) looking for clothing that would make both of them look like respectable, middle-class women out for a day of shopping. Sansa found herself laughing by the end, and realized, for all that the two women were vastly different in upbringing and station, she liked Tyrion’s mistress and wished they could have her for tea or dinner without causing a scandal.

Once they were both properly attired, Shae led them out onto the street where they summoned a hackney that could take them to Cheapside.

There was no sign advertising Mr. Hollard’s law offices, but a few discreet inquiries and they were on the correct street - luckily a busy one, so they would be less conspicuous - facing the door that led up to his second-story chambers. The building looked a little bit rough around the edges, which would be perfect for their purposes.

When there was a lull in the traffic, Shae raised an eyebrow at Sansa, who nodded. Then, she screamed.

That was Sansa’s cue. She looked around, as if searching desperately for help, and seized the heavy knocker on Mr. Hollard’s door. “Please,” she shouted, “Help! Anyone!”

She heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and a stout, middle-aged man appeared at the door. Sansa had hidden her distinctive hair beneath the hood of her cloak, but she knew that her face was arresting, and she could see the moment this man fell into her grasp.

“What’s wrong, miss?”

“Please, sir,” she began, adding as much emotion into her voice as she could, “my companion has been robbed! We need a constable, quickly!”

As expected, the appeal to his lawyerly sensibility - calling the proper authorities - was too much to resist. “Why don’t you come up to my chambers,” he suggested, “and I’ll send a boy to summon someone?”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” Sansa exclaimed, while Shae leaned on her, the two of them heading up the stairs as the hapless solicitor went down the street in search of a constable. The office was empty. Almost too easy.

Sansa went straight for the papers on top of the desk while Shae examined the drawers.There were many irrelevant ones, of course, and they knew they didn’t have long, if they wanted to be sitting innocently by the time the solicitor returned, presumably with a constable in tow (whom they would also need to deceive - but, Sansa thought, in for a penny, in for a pound).

Then one envelope, containing a still unmailed letter, stood out sickeningly to Sansa.  
It was addressed to Casterly Rock. To Symond Frey, the steward.

Shae noticed Sansa’s distress, and to her credit, on discovering the source, she immediately began searching the drawers for other correspondence with the steward. There wasn’t much, but Shae discovered one letter addressed to Mr. Hollard from Mr. Frey, and shoved it into her handbag just as they heard footsteps on the stairs and scurried back into place, playing to perfection their roles of women in distress.

Somehow, the knowledge of what Shae held in her bag made it easier to lie to the constable - something that would have appalled the young maiden who had arrived in London nearly two years earlier. It was as if Sansa could simply close off her emotions, with the knowledge that they would tear her apart as soon as she allowed them rein over herself.

Back at the Dwarves’ Den, Shae ushered Sansa into the office and handed her the letter.

She didn’t want to open it, but she knew she had to. Needed to know.

And it was as she expected. Mr. Frey was sending Mr. Hollard money - in amounts that could easily match Lord Tyrion’s records from the club. It wasn’t evidence that would stand in court, but it was damning enough, in Sansa’s eyes.

Shae seemed to understand that Sansa needed space, and left her to her thoughts.

Part of her couldn’t believe this; couldn’t believe it was Tywin who was paying the men framing her father. After all, he was the one who had offered to help free her father. What did he have to gain from conspiring against Ned Stark? It seemed beyond foolish for Tywin to have constructed this entire charade just to trap her in marriage - although she didn’t put that beyond him, if that was what he had decided he wanted. Could he possibly have had some other reason to want Father dead - and Sansa was just a convenient benefit?

She knew he was crafty, manipulative, powerful; she knew it was entirely possible that he was pulling the strings on this whole affair. And he had lied to her before, about Arya. What was to say he wasn’t lying about this?

But that would mean accepting that everything her marriage was built on was a lie. That those moments when she thought there was something real between them; when she allowed herself to imagine falling in love with him; those moments were lies, too.

It was Tyrion who eventually interrupted her thoughts. “Sansa?” He took her hands in his, and she was glad he had laid aside that strange formality they usually maintained. His face betrayed more concern than she had ever seen in it. “Sansa, are you sure this letter means what you think it does?”

She laughed, a broken, hollow sound even to her own ears. “Tell me, Tyrion, do you doubt your father is capable of something like this? Do you doubt, if he wanted to, that he could destroy anyone, up to the King or the Prince Regent himself?”

He squeezed her hand. “I have no doubt that he could. But Sansa, what would he stand to gain from bringing your father to ruin? My father is nothing if not rational, and sending Ned Stark to the gallows is not rational.”

She did not want to cry here, not even in front of Tyrion and Shae, who seemed to sincerely care about her; she did not want to cry at all, not when one crack in her strong exterior would risk tearing her apart entirely. She needed to get out of here, to avoid weakness, to return to her role as dutiful wife, even though she knew that every moment she would be thinking of how her husband had betrayed her, a thousand times worse than he had with Arya: for then, at least, she could believe that he had only wished for the best, even if he had acted poorly. There was no way to explain this, apart from pure malice.

“What are you doing here, Sansa?” As if her thoughts had summoned him, the Duke of Casterly Rock stood in the doorway, his expression stormy, his voice low and dangerous.

She laughed bitterly, and turned on Tyrion. “Did you summon him, my lord? Or was it Shae?” Why not crown this bitter revelation with the appearance of the very man who caused it?

The Duke didn’t move. “No one summoned me. I came by to check on my investments in the club. Now, someone tell me what’s going on here. Immediately.”

Emboldened by her rage and fury and utter hopelessness, Sansa rose from her seat and approached him. “Nothing, Your Grace. I’ve simply uncovered the game you’ve been playing this whole time. I’m only ashamed it took me this long to figure it out.”

“What game?” His voice was softer, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think he sounded concerned. “What are you talking about, Sansa?”

She handed him the letter. “See for yourself, Your Grace.”

He scanned through the letter once, then returned to the top to read it again. Then he put it on the desk and looked at Sansa sharply. “I need a moment alone with my wife,” he announced, his eyes never leaving hers.

Tyrion and Shae both looked sympathetically toward Sansa before they shuffled out of the office, closing the door behind them.

He stalked toward her now, until he had her backed up against the desk, his hands caging her, blocking her escape on both sides. He was so close, she had to crane her neck to meet his gaze.

“So let me get this straight, Duchess,” he said, his voice much too calm, “You found a letter establishing an exchange of funds between my steward and a man you believe to be providing money to the men who will testify against your father. Do you have any other information that might help…shed light on what you found?”

“No, Your Grace,” she replied, fighting to keep her voice from shaking. She would not be cowed, not when he was the guilty one.

“So I am to believe, on the basis of this evidence - the provenance of which I’m sure I don’t want to know - you’ve decided that I’m behind the conspiracy to hang your father. Is that correct?”

She met his gaze. “Are you?”

He took a step back, then, as if her question had shaken him. “Sansa,” he replied quietly, “you truly believe I would do that?”

What was there to say to that? There was nothing between them but lies and half-truths and mistrust. Nothing but a domineering man pursuing his own interests at the expense of hers. How could she not believe it?

She turned away, hugging herself, wiling the tears not to fall now. Willing herself not to mourn the fact that she had been so stupid as to allow consoling his grief at the news of Jaime to overcome her wariness of him - a wariness that he had fully earned.

She felt a hand under her chin, pulling her face to where he could examine it. She wanted to jerk away from him, to tell him to leave her alone, but something in his eyes stopped her. Something unusually tender, sweet, even.

“Sansa, I swear to you,” he whispered, his voice more uncertain than she had ever heard it, “all I’ve done on your father’s case has been intended to help him.”

And, oh Lord, she wanted to believe him. Truly, she did. She wanted to be able to trust that her husband was the sort of man who would never hurt her; who would protect her family in the way she had believed he would when they married. But he had hidden too much from her, kept too much from her, made her feel too often the fool, for her to be able to give in to the temptation. Her husband was a practiced liar, able to manipulate those around him, and she could never be quite certain he wasn’t manipulating her, as well.

She couldn’t stand the sincerity in his expression. The possibility that even this, which felt so true, could be a lie, was too much. She turned away from him, and he didn’t try to drag her back.

“I can’t do this, Tywin,” she finally said, her gaze having settled blankly on the wall behind him; her voice cold even to her own ears. “I’d rather we remained cordial strangers, bound by nothing but duty, than believe your promises once more.” She returned her gaze to him, knowing she would have to beg for this part. “Let me go home now. Please.”

“Sansa-” he began, but no. She wouldn’t give him the opportunity to draw her back in. She turned and strode out of the room, and felt a jolt of satisfaction at what she imagined her husband must look like, standing alone in a gaming hell, watching his furious wife leave.

He didn’t come home for dinner that night, and, more notably, he didn’t come to her bed at all. It was, perhaps, the first night in their entire marriage that he hadn’t.

The following evening, she was drifting off when she felt him slide into bed beside her, and she was drowsy and vulnerable enough that she didn’t fight him when he touched her and kissed her; she didn’t protest when he pushed her shift up, his large, firm hands pushing her down until all she could think of was his touch. And by the time he had crawled down her body to make love to her with his mouth, she was whimpering and mewling helplessly in his hands, her resistance to him worn down by his assault on her senses.

By the time he finished inside her, she was too limp and contented to evict him from her bed; and yet she knew, even as her last tremors were still running through her, that they had not resolved anything, and the problem of Dontos Hollard and her husband’s possible betrayal would re-emerge sooner than either of them would like.

***

Charlie’s voice was low enough that it might not have woken her, had she been sleeping a bit more soundly. But it was his words that had her immediately alert.

“Your Grace,” the footman whispered, “Mr. Frey here to see you.”

Tywin slid out of bed soundlessly, and Sansa pretended she hadn’t awakened as he crept through the connecting door, presumably to dress before meeting with his steward.

Sansa knew she had a choice to make. Tywin had said nothing about Symond Frey and the letter since the day she had discovered it in the solicitor’s office, which might mean that he was dealing with it in his own way, without telling her; or that he intended to cover up his own involvement in the plot to bring down Ned Stark. She could go back to sleep, and trust that her husband was working in her best interests - something she desperately wanted to believe, but that his actions so far had made difficult - or she could eavesdrop on the conversation, and find out for herself.

What she planned to do was so unlike the behavior of the proper young lady her mother had raised; and yet, her life had diverged from the one she had planned the moment her father had been arrested. She couldn’t look back now.

He would receive his steward in his study, presumably, which would work nicely for Sansa’s purposes: there was enough of an alcove outside the door that she could hide herself from any servants who might happen by, without exposing herself. So, once enough time had gone by that she could assume that the Duke’s full attention would be on Mr. Frey, she slipped on her dressing gown and snuck out of her bedroom and down the stairs, planting herself immediately outside the study and pressing her ear to the heavy wooden door.

She couldn’t hear everything they said, especially when the Duke was speaking in that low voice he used to intimidate, but she could hear enough, especially when Mr. Frey spoke in his high, unpleasant voice.

“I included those charges as payments to your solicitors, Your Grace. I have hidden nothing.”

She couldn’t hear her husband’s reply.

“Of course, Mr. Hollard has been one of your solicitors for years, Your Grace. He handles your…” and the steward’s voice dropped too low; she couldn’t make out the words.

Was the truth really as simple as this? A coincidence, a misunderstanding? And yet, Sansa’s instinct told her otherwise. And if there truly was a conspiracy, was her husband involved, or was he simply an unwitting victim of it? It was difficult to imagine anything happening within the Lion Duke’s purview that didn’t meet his approval, but she supposed it wasn’t impossible that something might slip past his notice.

The steward’s tone became higher again, and she heard, “Perhaps you should ask your _wife_ -”

The Duke roared back, “How dare you insinuate such a thing? Get out!” And that was the only warning she had to scramble back and out of sight before the steward stormed out of the study without a backwards glance.

When the Duke finally emerged, he cast a glance into the shadows where Sansa was hiding, and she thought she must be caught; but then he proceeded down the corridor and back up the stairs.

She followed as quickly as she could, without revealing herself, but it was no use; he had gone straight into her bedroom, so when she entered, out of breath, he was already standing in the middle of the dark room, watching her in the open doorway.

They were both silent for a long while, aside from her heavy breathing. Finally, he broke it, remarking, “Don’t you think listening at doors is a bit childish, Duchess?”

She didn’t respond. She wouldn’t take his bait. They both knew exactly why she had listened in to his conversation, and she wouldn’t apologize for it.

Finally, he sighed. “Do you believe me now?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what to believe.”

They were silent for a moment. Then he said, “Come here, Sansa.”

She was tempted to ignore him. She didn’t want to lose herself in the sweet feeling of his touch, only to realize later that they hadn’t solved any of the problems that lay between them. She wanted to discuss this, to come to a solution - only, she wasn’t sure what solution was available to them, when the fundamental problem was their inability to trust and confide in one another.

She must have delayed too long, because he was moving toward her, not with the menace she might have expected in his step, but with something else. Concern, uncertainty, perhaps. When he got to where she was, he reached behind her to shut the door, then leaned against it, his body caging hers in, his forehead touching hers.

“Frey is no longer in our service.” She wondered if his use of the word ‘our’ was intended to be conciliatory. “I don’t know what else I can do to prove to you that I had no part in this.”

She looked at him then, examining the creases in his face, the rough stubble on his chin that had grown in during the day, since his valet had shaved him that morning; that face that had grown so familiar to her over the last several months, and yet somehow was still one she didn’t know at all. She didn’t know what it meant when one vein stood out more prominently than another; when his mouth turned up or his brows down; how to tell when he was lying. How strange: to know him so intimately, and yet not at all.

She reached up and touched his cheek, and he leaned into her palm. “Please, Sansa?” His voice almost quivered with desperation, with need. “Please come back to bed.”

Her husband had remarked, before their marriage, that it had been a long time since he had begged anyone for anything - but it appeared he was doing so now. And it almost undid her.

Almost. She shook her head. She knew exactly where that would lead, even if she wanted it as badly as he did. “Tywin, we both know that won’t solve anything. It will only put things off for a while - which will only allow them to get worse.”

He reached his own hand up to cradle her jaw, creating a loop between the two of them, each one of them reaching toward the other. Meeting her gaze squarely, he told her, “Sansa, I will destroy anyone who tries to harm you - even if that includes members of my own family. And I will do this, not because you are the wife I have sworn to cherish, but because you are the woman I love.”

She felt her head hit the wooden door as she moved back from him, his words hitting her like something corporeal. _Love_? Her husband _loved_ her? Wasn’t this what she had always dreamed of, as a little girl: being loved by her husband?

And yet, this was not some young lord who swept her away in a crowded ballroom. This was not a handsome gentleman bringing her flowers and taking her on romantic carriage rides.

This was the man who had pushed her into a marriage she didn’t want ( _didn’t she?_ ). This was a man old enough to be her grandfather; the cold, cruel, unfeeling Duke of Casterly Rock. And as far as she knew, this was still part of his attempt to manipulate her into believing and trusting him, after he had shown, time and time again, that he did not deserve her trust.

She tried to keep that in her mind, but when she looked back into his eyes, warm and tender and, oh Lord, _loving_ , she couldn’t. Her lips moved to his of their own accord, and she was drowning. Drowning in him.

***

Tywin remained awake long after his wife’s even breathing indicated that she had fallen asleep. He watched the way his breath moved tendrils of her hair; the way she gradually nuzzled closer to him as she shifted in her sleep.

Dear Lord, he hadn’t quite being ready to admit it until the words had simply tumbled out of him, but he truly _did_ love his wife. He loved everything about her: her beauty, her honesty, her strong convictions. He had been a fool to think she could be nothing to him but the mother to his children; he never wanted to spend another night without Sansa in his arms.

He wondered when it had begun. Had it been that day she walked into his office and took his anger and grief and fear over the news about Jaime as her own, allowing him to find comfort in her? Or perhaps it was that dreadful moment he had watched her fall from her horse, that endless and instant fall that had changed their lives forever.

Or perhaps, truly, he had loved her since the moment she had taken his hand, fearful and confused but still regal and stunning as she moved, the way her figure darted in and out of the other dancers thoroughly bewitching him, even then.

How cliche, that the Lion Duke should be brought low by a wolf cub; and yet, that wasn’t quite true, was it? Because now she was his lioness; and instead of bringing him low, she made him a better man.

He needed her to trust him: a need that went beyond the desire for domestic tranquility, beyond the need to cooperate and coexist peacefully for the sake of their future children. His chest was now filled with a deep, aching need, and now his wife’s mistrust was a gaping hole in the fabric of his life, so long undisturbed by concern for anyone or anything aside from the country and his family name.

He didn’t know how else to make her see that he had nothing to do with his steward’s betrayal; that her father’s conviction was the very last thing he wanted.Tywin Lannister, brilliant strategist and politician, was at a loss.If he couldn’t prove to her how much he loved her, then what would she believe?

***

Sansa was sewing in the parlor when Charlie entered, his face lined with concern. “Your Grace,” he began, “Lord Varys-” Then he stopped, uncertain.

She rose. “Yes, Charlie? What about Lord Varys?”

“He’s outside, Your Grace, and he looks badly hurt.”

Sansa felt fear surge through her. Everyone knew of Varys’ connection to her husband. If he had been harmed intentionally, then that was, in effect, a declaration of war against the Lannisters. “Charlie,” she said, willing herself to stay calm until she had given him instructions, “I need someone to fetch a physician, and someone else to find His Grace and bring him home as soon as possible. When you’ve dispatched that, meet me out front. I’ll look at Lord Varys myself.”

Charlie departed with a “Yes, Your Grace,” and Sansa hurried to the front door and down the front steps, looking around her to ensure that no threats lingered.

“Lord Varys,” she called out when she had reached him, and she was relieved to see him pick up his head - a small amount, but certainly perceptible. “How are you?” she asked softly, kneeling beside him and quickly scanning his prone body, trying to ascertain which bones looked like they were actually broken and which were merely bruised. She could see stains of red on his clothing, although he didn’t appear to be bleeding much at present. But his face…his face was disturbingly pale.

“I’ve been better, Your Grace,” he muttered, his voice weak, his eyes barely fluttering open when he spoke.

“Can we move you inside the house,” she asked, taking his hand and looking around for some sign of how the spymaster had gotten there, or how he had come to be in such a dreadful state, “or should we wait for the physician to arrive?”

Charlie arrived at the top of the steps at that moment, and descended, waiting for his next orders.

Lord Varys groaned, “I’d rather get insider sooner, if it’s all the same to you, Your Grace.”

She nodded to Charlie, who scurried back inside, and soon Charlie, two other footmen, and Tywin’s valet were carrying Lord Varys into the parlor.

Sansa urged him not to try to talk further until the Duke arrived. The physician appeared first, and looked grave as he examined the spymaster in silence. Finally, Tywin strode in, his expression stormy. Sansa rose to her feet, waiting for his assessment.

He met Sansa’s eyes first, and nodded, a silent sign of his approval of how she had handled things in his absence, then spoke. “Doctor, how is the patient?”

The doctor looked up, his expression grim. “Several broken ribs, Your Grace, and a number of more minor injuries. I recommend bed rest for several weeks to heal the bones, and bloodletting twice per day for the first few days, focused particularly on the arms and legs.”

Tywin nodded. The spymaster, it appeared, wasn’t in mortal danger, but Sansa was sure he was thinking the same thing she was: he would be incapacitated for Father’s trial.

When the doctor had bandaged Lord Varys’ cuts and let what he considered a sufficient amount of blood, he departed, and the Duke immediately asked, “Who was it?”

Varys’ voice was grim. “The Mountain.”

Tywin cursed. “This is precisely what I was hoping to avoid. My daughter is a fool, if she thinks I won’t retaliate.”

Cersei? _Cersei_ had sent her man after her own father’s people? What could possibly have angered her so badly, that she would risk something so foolish?

“She thinks you’re supporting the Targaryen girl,” came Varys’s weak answer. “Apparently your lack of public support for her position has left many wondering whether your loyalties lie elsewhere.”

The Duke shook his head, his whole body nearly shaking with tension and rage, held so tightly Sansa feared he would lose his temper entirely at the slightest provocation. “She didn’t act alone. Cersei is foolish, but she would not be bold enough to attack me without some promise of support from someone outside her husband’s family.”

Varys nodded, but what could be done? The spymaster would clearly be in no shape to be chasing down leads for some time yet. So Tywin sent Varys off with Charlie and several other footmen, once he was assured that the injured man would be in good hands.

“Tywin,” she finally asked, as they lay in bed together that night, his arms wrapped around her comfortably, and her head tucked in against his chest, “was it wise to antagonize Cersei? Surely you must have known this was a possibility.”

He sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. “Yes, perhaps sometimes I do underestimate my daughter’s capacity for idiocy. But I’d rather not be on the wrong side of matters, where it seems clear that the Targaryen girl’s claim is legitimate. Cersei’s husband created this problem, and he alone bears responsibility for digging them out of it.”

It made sense, she thought. It was ungenerous - ruthless, even - but she couldn’t help but feel warm pride that he was willing to sacrifice his daughter’s wellbeing, if it promoted hers and that of the children they would have someday.

And even though she still didn’t fully trust him, perhaps she could live with knowing that he would defend her with all the fierceness as the lion his family claimed as their sigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Ned's trial! (Finally!)


	13. Chapter 13

_London, September 1813_

“Eddard Stark, Duke of Winterfell, you stand before the Peers of the Realm, accused of high treason against the Crown.”

This was the first time Sansa had seen her father in almost two years. He was dressed in his formal robes and wig, but still he looked haggard and thin, as Robb had said he would, and it hurt to watch him cough, a cough that wracked his whole body, making him shake and shiver. Her father, her proud, strong father, now just looked old.

Sansa held her mother’s hand as they sat together in the House of Lords, on the benches reserved for the families of the lords. The seats were filled, she noted - probably with curious onlookers, although she couldn’t bear to meet any of their eyes, to find out how many of them were looking at her father with hunger; how many were here to see a Duke hanged for treason for the first time in centuries. How many, even among her own peers, thirsted for the sight of the mighty laid low.

While Sansa had yet to fully forgive her brother and mother for keeping the news about Bran and Rickon from her for so long, they were back on speaking terms, and Sansa had returned in recent weeks to her routine of dining at the Stark townhouse when the Duke worked late at the War Office. She was glad for it now; she needed the support.

“My lords,” Sansa's husband announced from where he stood beside Father, who sat in the front benches, “the defendant, His Grace the Duke of Winterfell, has been falsely accused through a conspiracy designed to rob him of his title, and the crown of one of its most loyal servants.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. As terrifying as many found him, the Duke of Casterly Rock’s words were not to be taken lightly.

The attorney general, Lord Randyll Tarly, Earl of Horn Hill, stepped forward, a sour look on his face. The Duke had mentioned that they had served together in the Americas, during the war; and where Tywin had come back crafty and hard, Lord Tarly had become set in his ways, his obsession with tradition and decorum overpowering nearly everything else. And while Lady Tarly had been sympathetic to the Starks, following the lead set by their close allies, the Tyrells, it was difficult to imagine her husband doing the same. In Lord Tarly’s mind, Sansa knew, her father was undoubtedly guilty, and the sooner they could hang him, the better.

“My lords,” the Earl responded irritably, “while the Duke of Casterly Rock is well known as a man of integrity-" Sansa could almost hear the snickers, although none of the lords present were bold enough to voice their opinions about her husband out loud, “the matter stands that the Duke of Winterfell has committed crimes for which there is no possible redemption.”

Sansa wondered if her husband was feeling any uncertainty. He looked unassailable, his robes and wig giving him even more of an air of power and confidence than usual, so much so that he stood out, even in this room full of similarly dressed and similarly powerful men. But she had rarely seen her husband betray his feelings, even within their private chambers, and she wondered if any doubts plagued him - doubts that would surely be undetectable in his expression and manner, even to her.

“While I have no doubt,” the Duke replied, his voice even and cool, “that the Attorney General is a man of absolute honor, I believe the evidence I will be presenting will prove the inaccuracy - and slander - of his claims.”

Lord Tarly looked like he was about to demand that someone be flogged. But his voice was calm when he announced, “I call forward the Crown’s first witness: Sir Ilyn Payne!”

Sansa had known this would be difficult; the Duke had even asked if she wanted to remain at home during the trial, although she had declined, knowing that her mother would need the support. 

But still, she thought of Mr. Hollard, and the fact that these men were being paid for their testimony by someone - and with Varys still in recovery, the responsible part was yet undiscovered.Without the ability to uncover those who pulled the strings and stood behind the screen, how could the truth possibly win against lies?The image sprang to her mind, unbidden: her father on the gallows, his thin body walking the short distance- 

No.Her husband wouldn’t let that happen, she reminded herself; he had reassured her of that himself, last night.As she lay in his arms, sated after he had made passionate love to her more than once, his frustrations about the war and the trial clearly bleeding into his appetite for her, he had told her again he loved her, that he would defend her father with all the strength he had; and she thought that perhaps she might believe him.

She squeezed her mother’s hand throughout the morning’s testimony, both for her mother’s comfort and her own. It was difficult to listen to one bald-faced lie after another: secret meetings with French spies, including Fouché himself, at the Stark townhouse; conversations with Ned Stark in which Payne claimed the Duke had attempted to recruit him, carrying on about the greatness of Napoleon and the French Empire.

When Payne’s testimony ended, Tywin stood, his manner calm and sharp and efficient, and laid into the man, mercilessly shredding through each event he referenced, providing contradictory statements from bartenders and card dealers - including, Sansa noted, some from the Dwarves’ Den - and even, once, a whore, causing some eyebrows to rise. The Duke and his spymaster had done their work, Sansa noted with pride; he eviscerated the man’s testimony quite neatly.

But would it be enough to exonerate Ned Stark?

A recess was called at tea time, and as Sansa began to stand and extricate herself from the crowd, she was surprised to see her husband appear before her. “I imagine,” he said quietly, offering his arm, “that you would like to see your father?”

Had they been in the privacy of their chambers, Sansa would have kissed him then.

As part of the odd circumstances of the House of Lords trying one of its own members for high treason, Ned Stark was being held, under guard, in his own chambers. He sat calmly behind his massive desk - a twin to the one that stood in his study in the Stark townhouse - still dressed in his robes, looking a far cry from the strong, powerful man he had been prior to his arrest. He stood when the Duke led Sansa and her mother inside, although it seemed to take him longer than it should have to notice they had arrived.

But the hug he enveloped her in was warm, and comforting, and Sansa knew that she should let him go, and allow her mother time with her father, but oh! how terribly she had missed him.

“Sansa,” he whispered, cupping her cheek and kissing her brow like he had done when she was much smaller, although now she was nearly as tall as he was. “My little girl, all grown up. I wish I could have been there, to see you married.”

She felt the tears threaten, the knowledge that, had he never been arrested, she likely would never have married Tywin Lannister - and suddenly it struck her as very strange, because was there a part of her that was unhappy about that idea?

“I missed you so much, Papa,” she breathed, willing herself back to the calm exterior she would need, if she was going to face the afternoon’s court session.

Then Sansa’s father pulled away, and looked sharply at her husband. “Lannister.”

Tywin nodded. “Stark.”

Tywin had mentioned that he had met with her father several times leading up to the trial, but he had said little about what their conversations had entailed. Sansa wondered if any more cordiality had developed between the strange pairing of father- and son-in-law, or if the two men were still as standoffish as they had ever been. The latter seemed more likely, given this frigid reception.

Catelyn Stark took Sansa’s place in Ned’s arms, and Tywin quietly led Sansa away, allowing her parents a private reunion.

She found her thoughts drifting back continually to the morning’s testimony: to the cruelty of the lies Sir Ilyn Payne had told about her father, and to her fear that her husband would ultimately fail. She didn’t notice where Tywin had led them, until he was opening the doors to another set of chambers, and leading her to a large, plush armchair, which she immediately settled into.

Pressing a kiss onto her forehead, he moved away, taking off his robes and wig and calling for a tea tray to be brought in. They ate together in silence, and when everything was cleared away, Tywin scooped Sansa up in his arms and pulled her down into his lap, holding her body against him and sighing into her hair. His hand reached up to rub her back, and he murmured, “I’m going to get him off, darling. We’re going to win.”

And, Lord, she hoped he was right.

The afternoon brought testimony from Sir Meryn Trant: a similar litany of grievous offenses that Tywin laid into as soon as he was given the chance to cross-examine the witness. But still, Sansa worried. She couldn’t read the assembled lords to determine whether they sympathized with her father, or whether they were accepting what Lord Tarly was feeding them.

By the end of the first full day of the trial, Sansa was exhausted, and when her husband entered their carriage, she immediately snuggled up against him, hoping that he needed her closeness as much as she needed his. He ran his hand down her back and kissed the top of her head, and she was willing to believe it.

Their love-making that night was slow and warm, his body moving over hers with calm intention, his mouth touching every inch of her, driving her gradually into a frenzy, so by the time he took her, she was desperate for his release.When he finished, and wrapped her in his arms, she found the words slipping out of her mouth without her permission.“I love you, Tywin,” she whispered.

He stiffened, and turned, so she lay beneath him and he was looking down at her, her jaw cradled in his hand.He said nothing, but his eyes searched hers, and she knew he was trying to determine whether her words were sincere - whether she truly meant what she said.

And she did. At the beginning of their marriage, half a year ago, Tywin Lannister had pledged to defend her father and do his best to free him, and that’s what he had done in the House of Lords today. He had kept his word, he was fighting to defend what was his, and that was more romantic than all the novels in the world.

She smiled, and reached up to kiss him again.

***

The next day slogged on interminably.

The War Office documents found in Father’s study were produced, described, read from. Tywin countered with Varys’s documents, proving they had been forged. Lord Tarly then questioned the Duke’s evidence, countering it with his own. At times, Sansa wanted to scream, to remind everyone that this wasn’t a bureaucratic mishap: this was her father’s life on the line, and could they not stay focused on that?

But it was the following day, really, when everything fell apart.

Sansa knew something was wrong when Lord Tarly entered the House of Lords with a wicked smirk on his face. He had found something that would open a crack in the Duke’s case - and he knew it.

“I call Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden to the stand.”

Women were seldom called to the floor of the House of Lords in the first place, and Margaery, who, as far as Sansa knew, had nothing to do with the case? Nothing good could come of this, Sansa was certain.

Lady Margaery appeared like a shadow, nothing of her usual gregarious charm and oversized presence. She walked slowly, purposefully, toward the center of the floor, her eyes fixed on where she was walking and deliberately avoiding the benches where she must know Sansa and the Starks would be sitting.

Then, Margaery, Sansa’s former friend, who had stood by her in those awful months after her father’s arrest, who had all but vanished in the months since her wedding, dropped the worst surprise of all.

“Lady Margaery,” Lord Tarly intoned, “would you tell the assembled peers why you believe the Duke of Casterly Rock has reason to…lack impartiality in this case?”

Sansa’s heart froze. She knew what was coming, and she wondered just how much someone - whoever was orchestrating this - must have on Margaery, on the Tyrells, to force her hand in this way. Margaery had never been an especially selfless person, but Sansa knew she would never betray a friend in this way unless someone had threatened her or her family with something truly awful.

“The Duchess of Casterly Rock is…was,” and oh, that shift of tense hurt, “my friend, and she told me in confidence, soon after she and the Duke were betrothed, that he had promised he would free her father, if she agreed to marry him.”

Audible gasps rang out through the chamber, and although Sansa kept her eyes fixed on Lady Margaery, on her father, on the floor, trying desperately not to react to the fact that her marriage had just been placed under scrutiny for the world to see, as a means of bringing down her father’s defense, she knew that everyone in the chamber was looking at her, looking at her husband, who must be avoiding her gaze just as assiduously as she was avoiding his.

She couldn’t move; couldn’t leave; she was frozen there, until Lord Tarly went on. And oh, the questions he asked Lady Margaery! About the conversations they had had, prior to her marriage. About Sansa's fear and dislike of her husband. About how she believed the marriage was the only hope they had of freeing her father.

Although Sansa couldn’t stand to look at her husband, she wondered how angry he must be with her. Neither of them had had any reason to believe Lady Margaery would betray her in this way, but surely he would believe her a fool for having shared her true feelings with someone who wasn’t family? Her cheeks burned; her body felt numb; even her mother’s hand squeezing hers could provide no comfort.

At the end of Lady Margaery’s testimony, her husband finally stood, his steps slow as he approached this witness who had just shamed him in front of his peers.

“Lady Margaery,” he clipped, his voice ringing and emotionless, “what were you promised, in exchange for your testimony?”

The girl lifted her chin, her expression defiant. “I have no idea what you’re suggesting, Your Grace. I came here of my own free will.”

Tywin’s hard expression did not waver. “Or did someone threaten you, or your family, if you refused to come here?”

Lord Tarly approached, his face beet-red. “What are you implying, Lannister?”

Tywin turned on the Earl. “I have no doubt, Tarly, that you have nothing to do with this little conspiracy. You’re not clever enough for this sort of thing. But someone has framed the Duke of Winterfell, and this girl’s testimony is just one piece of it. So, _my lady_ ,” he spat, “who asked you to testify here today, and what did they promise you in exchange?”

To her credit, Margaery didn’t falter. She simply repeated, “I came here of my own free will. Lord Tarly asked me to tell the truth, and that is what I have done.”

There was nothing more to be said. The Great Lion turned, defeated, dismissing the witness with a wave of his hand.

He didn’t come for Sansa at the recess, and she tried not to be disappointed.

The afternoon was worse.

When Lord Bolton stood from the benches and walked onto the floor, Sansa knew what he had to say could mean nothing good for their case. And from the expression on her husband’s face, this was not a witness Varys had known about.

His testimony was outlandish: he claimed that Fouché himself had visited Winterfell; and although his accusations were clearly absurd - invented statements about mysterious carriages arriving at night, and so forth - Tywin had nothing to counter him with: no documents, no additional witnesses. The marquess’s lies stood, uncontested by anyone or anything in the room, spoken not by debauched knights, but by a respected peer. Sansa began to feel, with a sickening sense of certainty, that whatever her husband did, her father truly was doomed.

It was in the middle of his testimony, however, that something finally clicked into place for Sansa. Robb was sitting beside her in shock, of course, that the neighbor he had trusted to help search for the boys was now testifying against his father.

But it wasn’t the content of Lord Bolton’s testimony, so much as the fact of his presence itself that made Sansa suddenly consider the significance of the fact that Bolton was their neighbor in the North.He knew the estate, he would have been able to have snuck the boys out without much difficulty; and if he was willing to accept pay for betraying Ned Stark on the witness stand, why not accept pay for kidnapping little boys, too?

She couldn’t just start advertising her theory, of course; she had to confirm it first. So, midway through Bolton’s testimony, she slipped a note to her mother (“I think I know who took Bran and Rickon”) and hurried out of the courtroom.

Lord Baelish answered the door almost immediately, as he had before. “Sansa,” he quipped, “what a surprise.” It was unsettling that she couldn’t tell whether his expression - eyebrow raised, slight smile - was questioning or knowing. At least he didn’t try to kiss her again.

He led her into the drawing room - empty as before - and she burst out, “Lord Baelish, I believe you have information that could confirm my theory. Will you?”

He smiled. “If I have any information that would be of use to you, Sansa, you are always welcome to it.”

She took a deep breath. “I believe that the Boltons are responsible for kidnapping Bran and Rickon.”

He stiffened slightly. “Have you told anyone of this?”

She shook her head. “You’re the first.”

“Good.” It was only then that Sansa noticed someone else had entered the room. Her heartbeat sped up wildly when she recognized the man: it was Ramsay Bolton, Lord Bolton’s son, whose reputation for violence had spread even among the ladies of the _ton_. “Ramsay, I believe we’ll need to speed things up.”

Ramsay smiled, and before Sansa could scream, a noxious-smelling rag was shoved in her face, and she knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm the WORST - but I'll try to have Chapter 14 up quickly so the cliffhanger doesn't hang for too long! <3


	14. Chapter 14

Sansa awoke to a rocking sensation, and her first impulse was to panic. She must be on a boat - and that could mean nothing good.

“Sansa.”Ramsay’s high voice came out of the darkness in singsong tones.“Sansa, Sansa, sailing across the sea.”Even when her eyes blinked out of the haze of sleepiness she had been shrouded in, she could see nothing, so she must be in the hold of a ship. 

But heading where?

She felt a hand trail down her arm, and shuddered. “Your family probably doesn’t even know you’re gone, do they? Your Duke is so busy trying to save your father, he might not notice for days.”

No, Sansa thought in response. He would notice she hadn’t come home that night. He would get his people - not Varys - but people, still - investigating immediately.

But then a sliver of doubt crept in. Tywin had bedded her last night, but that didn’t mean he would attempt to visit her again tonight. Perhaps he would go straight to his own bed, and wouldn’t even register her absence. Perhaps her mother and brother wouldn’t follow up on her note; wouldn’t notice she hadn’t appeared in court the following day. It might truly take days for someone to notice she was gone.

She hated the thought of even conversing with Ramsay, whom she had known to be cruel since once she caught him, as a boy, pulling the wings off moths; but she had to know. She couldn’t lie here any longer, not knowing. “Did you kill him?”

“Who? Your brother?” He laughed, and in that moment before he answered, time seemed to hang, suspended, waiting. “No. I’m sure he’s been better, but I didn’t kill him.”

She allowed herself a moment of relief. Then: “And what do you intend to do with me?”

“Well, you were always to be part of Littlefinger’s plan, but you confronting him about the boys forced his hand. He hoped that he’d be able to take you away right before the invasion, but keeping you in Britain isn’t an option any longer.”

Invasion? Leaving Britain? Sansa’s head was spinning with what Ramsay was telling her. “So where are you taking me?”

He laughed again, and she quickly decided she didn’t like the sound at all. “To Paris. To keep you safe there until Littlefinger can bring you back, after Napoleon takes the Revolution to Britain!”

Sansa thought she might be sick.Her stomach churned, and she couldn’t tell if it was the rocking of the boat, or the horrible revelation Ramsay had just delivered that had her sitting up and gasping. 

It was Lord Baelish who had been behind everything?All the misery that her family had experienced over the past year?Baelish who had gotten her father thrown in jail, Baelish who had orchestrated her brothers’ kidnapping…As she considered each piece, she could see how it was possible; how Littlefinger had been able to pull the right strings and achieve his goals.

But why?Solely to throw others off his own lying, scheming trail?

And now he had ordered her kidnapped, dragged away from her home, from Tywin, until whenever their glorious Revolution arrived.Judging by the snatches of news from the east that had made their way into London drawing rooms, that could be a very long time yet.

But just because the Emperor seemed to be losing the war didn’t make the situation she was in any less perilous.

She didn’t fight against Ramsay, if only because his reputation and her experience of him told her he was not a man she wanted to cross.Besides, if Littlefinger had ordered him to bring her here, then he wouldn’t harm her unless she gave him reason to - at least, she hoped so. 

She dutifully followed him off the ship and into a carriage that made its way swiftly south.She didn’t try to leap out when the carriage stopped at various checkpoints along the way, for gendarmes to enter and inspect its contents, looking curiously at the red headed woman in tousled but fine clothing.She allowed him to lead her up the stairs to a tiny garret somewhere in what she thought must be the Latin Quarter, and tried not to panic when he left, locking her in.

Lord Baelish showed up a few days later, bringing her supper tray himself. He set it down on the desk beside the pallet she had barely moved from since she had arrived, and sat down beside her. “Lord Ramsay tells me you’ve been quite cooperative, Sansa. I’m pleased.” He reached up to bring her face closer to his, and she knew she should just endure it, she knew he was a dangerous man, and yet the idea of having his foul lips on hers ever again filled her with bile.

She snapped. She reached up and slapped him, hard, across the face.

He reeled back, clutching his cheek, stunned. Then, slowly, he smiled, and Sansa’s stomach dropped. “It appears my little wolf has teeth.” He rose and pulled out a length of cord from his pocket - apparently he had prepared for this possibility. Twisting her hands almost painfully behind her, he tied them.

He didn’t try to touch her again, but he didn’t have to - he had already staked his claim quite effectively.

Apparently Lord Baelish had brought her to what passed for his Parisian quarters, because he slept in the adjacent room - had he hoped she would share his bed? - and spent his evenings, after he returned from wherever he went during the day, at the desk beside the dirty mattress where she huddled in a filthy, miserable ball, day in and day out.Ramsay would come in occasionally, and they would confer quietly in the bedroom.

Sometimes Sansa wondered what position each of them occupied in Napoleon’s ranks.What use, after all, were a couple of spies here, in Paris?

“Why?” she asked him one day, as he sat at the desk reviewing papers, the candle burning too low to do more than barely illuminate the squalid room.“Why me, and my family?”

He sighed and turned to look at her. “The old nobility has too much power. Your father is an unfortunate casualty, but he would never agree to help break down the system. We needed to weaken the Starks, the Baratheons, the Tyrells - and, conveniently, although I hadn’t planned it this way, the Lannisters, through the Duke’s connection to you. With some of the most powerful families torn down, remaking the system will be easy.” He paused, and even in the low light, his gaze seemed to move to somewhere in the distance. “While I would have brought your mother along with me once, she wouldn’t abandon your father now. She’s too stuck in her ways.”

He didn’t say it, but Sansa wondered if her little performance had actually worked against her - if acting as if she trusted him had convinced him that she would be a more pliant target than her mother. The whole idea made her squirm.

“And throwing me off my horse at Casterly Rock? What was that intended to accomplish?” He had brought her here now, and she wouldn’t hold back.

He grimaced. “Mr. Frey was supposed to keep his connection to the case quiet. He became nervous, with you snooping around in his account books, and took action without seeking prior approval. I assure you, he was thoroughly chastised as a result.”

Sansa didn’t want to know what Lord Baelish meant by “chastised,” and she didn’t care much about his attempt to deflect blame from himself. Littlefinger had ordered - or, likely, bribed - her husband’s steward to pay off the men who had testified against her father from her husband’s own coffers. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t given the order to place the burr under her saddle himself; he was responsible for her unborn child’s death.

On the brighter side - something Sansa had to look hard for, these days - her captor’s comment seemed to fully exonerate her husband.It appeared that the Duke of Casterly Rock had truly had no idea that his steward was double-crossing him.

The days dragged on, one fading into the next. Twice a day, she would allow Lord Baelish to feed her, enduring his touch for just long enough to gain enough sustenance to survive - or as much as she thought she might be able to keep down. As much as she wanted to refuse to eat, to defy him, to end her captivity sooner, something in her told her to stay alive. That her husband was coming for her, and he would be most displeased if he found she had starved before he could get to her.

Sometimes Lord Baelish would offer to bathe her, but she knew better than to accept such an offer from Littlefinger. She had no illusions that, one way or another, it wouldn’t end up with her flat on her back, and the possibility of his child growing inside her. Her husband might forgive many things, but carrying another man’s child would not be one, she knew instinctively. So instead, she stayed dirty, languishing in her own filth and days-old vomit as men who held her life and death in their hands filtered in and out of the poor apartment.

One afternoon, Littlefinger made an especially concerted attempt to convince her to bathe - which she again rejected - tried to convince her to brush her hair, or put on a nicer dress - again, rejected.The reason for his persistence became clear when a man with a severe face entered the garret, wearing the blues of the _Grande Armée_ , his shoulders overflowing with epaulettes, his chest with medals. 

As he stalked through the garret, his figure far too large and imposing for the small space, she realized that Lord Baelish must be in much deeper with Napoleon’s commanders than she had imagined - and for the first time since she had awoken to find Ramsay beside her, she felt real fear.Littlefinger seemed to have his own reasons not to touch her without permission; a Marshal of the Empire would not.

“This is the Duchess you wrote me about?” Sansa was grateful for her childhood French lessons, although she did not appreciate his sneering tone, in reference to her. “She looks more like a street urchin.”

Sansa refused to show any reaction; she stayed seated on her mattress, refusing to acknowledge the general. Partly out of pride, and partly out of self-preservation; perhaps if she didn’t acknowledge him, he would lose interest faster.

“I assure you, Marshal Soult,” Lord Baelish replied (his voice sounded no less slimy in French) “this is the wife of the most powerful Duke in Britain. If she would agree to wash some of the grime off, you would see she’s quite lovely.”

“Hmph.” Sansa tried not to flinch when the Marshal reached down to touch a matted clump of hair. And she tried not to think of her wedding night, when Tywin had done nearly the same - but with desire, not disgust; when she had responded in kind. That felt like it had happened centuries ago. “Perhaps I can see it.”

Then he turned to Littlefinger, thankfully leaving Sansa alone. “But that leaves the question: why have you brought a girl, even an important one, here? You were supposed to stay in London, gathering details for the invasion. I fail to see how this contributes to the Emperor’s cause, Englishman.”

If Littlefinger had been a dog, he would have been growling, his hackles raised. She could see that much in the man’s expression. “I have kidnapped the beloved - and yes, we have that on good authority” (Whose authority? Sansa wondered. Who dared to try to read the thoughts of the Duke of Casterly Rock?) “- the _beloved_ wife of the most powerful peer in Britain, and you ask me how this contributes to the cause? I have tied his hands. I can threaten to kill her if he does not acquiesce to our demands, and he will have no choice.”

“Hmph.” Sansa could tell the Marshal was looking at her again, although she did not look up at him to confirm it. “I will pass this along to the Emperor, but I suspect he will not be pleased you have left your post without authorization.”

The Marshal departed, and Sansa felt the mattress sink as Littlefinger sat down beside her. He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she neither accepted nor rejected it; she didn’t move. He had just laid his true intentions bare, and as much as she had hated him before, now she loathed him.

“I assume you understood most of what we were saying?”

“Obviously.” She put no emotion into her voice.

“I would never hurt you, Sansa - you know that, don’t you?”

She couldn’t help it; she shuddered as he tried to hold her shoulders more firmly. The truth was, she didn’t know anything of the sort. She knew he was dangerous, and duplicitous, and would do anything to achieve his goals - quite possibly including killing her.

“I brought you here because I want you with me, when Napoleon conquers all of Europe. I don’t want you to fall in the chaos that will descend on London when his invasion force arrives; I want you here, safe, with me.”

He moved closer to her, and pressed a kiss to her temple, a mockery of the gesture Tywin had made so many times. “You’ll see, Sansa. You’ll grow to love the Empire, just as I do.”

***

Lord Robb had informed Tywin that Sansa had left the trial early, although he hadn’t said why. Initially, Tywin wasn’t concerned - perhaps she had simply felt poorly - and it wasn’t until he found her bed empty that evening that he felt real fear.

His first thought, left over from the early days of their marriage, was that she had run from him. He felt rage build up in him, even as he recognized that he hadn’t been an attentive husband, he hadn’t given her much reason to stay, he hadn’t even really done what she had asked for and protected her father.

But then he recalled that sweet smile on her face, two nights earlier, when she had told him she loved him. Would his wife really have run from him, after that?

He ordered the candles lit, the room illuminated. He interrogated the servants; it appeared that none of them had seen her since the morning. Fear growing in his mind, he rode over to the Stark townhouse in the vague hope that Sansa might be there, with her mother and brothers; that she might have left some clue with them as to where she had gone.

It was then that Lord Robb reluctantly showed Tywin the note Sansa had passed him before she left the House of Lords, and panic seized him. Who had Sansa gone to, with her theory?

Littlefinger? Could she have been so foolish, as to think the slimy baron would help her? Despite her cleverness and her quick wit, Sansa was still naive about some things. Perhaps she truly didn’t understand how dangerous Lord Baelish could be.

When they found Littlefinger’s townhouse empty, even of servants, Tywin felt more certain: the baron must be involved in some way. But there were no clues to indicate where he had taken Sansa.

With Varys still abed, Tywin had to call on his counterpart in the Secret Service - a man he was not overly fond of - to track down Littlefinger’s whereabouts. It took far too long, and although Tywin tried to focus on Ned Stark’s trial in the interim - he would _not_ allow his wife’s father to go to the gallows, not _now_ \- it was difficult to think of anything but Sansa.

Sansa’s stunning blue eyes and the way her hair tumbled around her face when he made love to her.Sansa’s smile, so infrequently bestowed, but so rewarding when she directed it toward him.Sansa’s warmth and soft skin and the sweet little sounds she made when he held her in his arms. 

He would bring her back if he had to tear all of Europe apart to do it.

Almost a week after her disappearance, a note finally arrived in Tywin’s office at Parliament, just as he was putting away his robes and wig from another long day of trial.

_Littlefinger seen in Paris_ , was all it said.

That night, the Duke of Casterly Rock rode to Dover, and boarded the first ship he could find that was heading to Calais.

***

_Leipzig, October 1813_

In the nearly six months he’d been with Prince Tormund’s unit, Jon had decided that he hated the night before a battle more than nearly anything else.

In this particular instance, his unit was trying to get a decent night’s sleep, knowing that French troops were just on the other side of the rise, presumably doing the same thing. This time, the Allies had the clear advantage in numbers: Austria had finally joined them after seeing how the tide was turning, and Napoleon’s forces were clearly wearing thin after his disastrous Russian campaign. But Napoleon had the advantageous position, defending the city on the hill, and his guns were still as deadly as ever.

He knew some men could fall asleep easily before a battle, but he didn’t understand it: how could they rest, knowing that one of those massive guns at the top of the hill could blow them to bits the moment they awoke?

This time, Jon didn’t even try to sleep. He sat in the dark mess tent, a single candle and a half-drunk tankard of ale at his side, reviewing correspondence Lord Stannis had handed him earlier that day - not because it was especially urgent, but simply to have something to focus his mind on.

“I thought I could find you here, Englishman.”Even in the quiet of the evening, Tormund’s heavily accented German carried with it all of his usual force.He sat down opposite Jon, offering a flask that Jon assumed contained the Russian nobleman’s usual preference of strong vodka.“Frightened?”

Jon smirked and took a swig, suppressing the cough that threatened whenever he drank the disgusting stuff Tormund seemed to enjoy. “I won't deny it. And you, my large friend?”

“I’ve never met a Frenchman I wasn’t looking forward to killing.” If Jon hadn’t known Tormund so well, the bloodthirsty gleam in the prince’s eyes might have made him nervous - but as it was, knowing that the large man was in good spirits before the battle lifted a bit of the weight from Jon’s shoulders.

Jon sifted through the papers in front of him. “Is it true, that the Tsar himself is commanding us tomorrow? That this is looking to be the largest battle we’ve fought in yet?”

Tormund grimaced.“I just sat through three hours of a meeting with His Highness that made me wish he had just left us to fend for ourselves.I believe your commander, Lord Stannis, shared my opinion.”Stannis would be with the commanders in the main Russian sector for this battle, leaving Jon and a few of his comrades as the only Englishmen in this part of the battlefield.“But yes.This will be the biggest shitshow of a battle I’ve ever seen.”

The big man took another swig from his flask, and Jon lifted his tankard in mock salute. “And Ygritte? Safely away from the battle, I hope?”

The Russian man just laughed. “You’ve got it bad, Englishman. But no, you know our little red fox. She’s running intelligence for the Tsar himself - and let’s hope he keeps her out of trouble.”

Jon tried to suppress the worry that seized him, at the thought of even Ygritte, small and nimble and fierce as she was, dodging cannon fire. But if she was working for the Tsar himself, what could he do, besides wait, and hope?

Neither of them spoke after that - what need was there? - but they sat across from one another in the empty mess tent until the sky lightened to a dull pink and the camp began to stir, everyone preparing for the carnage to come.

In their sector (there was no way of telling what was happening anywhere else) the battle seemed to run in the Allies’ favor for most of the morning.The Austrians seized the little town of Liebertwolkwitz from the French without heavy losses, and Tormund’s unit had just moved in to clean up when cannon fire, coming from much closer than previously, made it clear that the French were not prepared to abandon their hold on this area without a fight.

Jon had now taken part in several battles where his unit had come under fire from Napoleon’s guns, but having experienced it before didn’t reduce the sheer terror those low, ringing booms created in the pit of his stomach.

If the French had set up their precious guns on the hillside above the town - and it sounded like there were a _lot_ of cannons up there - then there was surely another offensive coming. Jon looked over at Tormund, who mouthed “fuck” and yelled for the unit to take cover. Most of the unit had barely gotten out of the line of fire when the unmistakable sound of gunshots in very close range indicated that the French would be coming back through the town in full force. And with the cannons blanketing the area, there were no options left: they had to retreat, if they wanted to have any chance of surviving and regrouping to reengage the enemy.

Tormund’s unit, famed for its courage under fire, had suddenly become mice, scurrying from one sheltered spot to the next, from building to building, dodging cannon blasts and gunshots.

Then: hoofbeats. Jon’s heart sank further. The Marshal in this sector - MacDonald, he had heard some say - had also sent in cavalry. They really wanted this fucking town back. And they would run over the infantry units - including Jon’s - without difficulty.

Jon ran up beside Tormund. “What the fuck are we going to do against cavalry? While the guns are still battering us from above?”

Tormund smirked. “Murat’s leading the cavalry charge. He likes big columns - maybe he’s compensating for something.”

Jon shook his head - his big Russian friend was seriously making a dick joke in the middle of carnage? But then he realized what Tormund was saying, and he found his mouth quirking up. 

Not that understanding Tormund’s plan made it any less harrowing.Jon had grown up around horses in Winterfell, but approaching a column of cavalry, huge beasts thundering in front of him, still filled Jon with dread.Any one of those animals could rush over to him and trample him without any difficulty, while its rider swung his sword to finish the job.But that was the way of war: running toward something you knew could easily kill you, and desperately hoping you managed to kill it first.

Jon loaded his musket, watching out of the corner of his eye as men up and down the line did the same.

He raised his gun to his shoulder, aimed into the line of cavalry at where he anticipated a horse and rider would be by the time his bullet struck, and fired.

Men and horses fell as Jon’s comrades did the same, all along the line - although not nearly enough to make a difference.

They reloaded twice more, got off two more shots in that spot, before Tormund called for the unit to move to their next firing position. Jon’s legs brought him there, a crouched half-run, his musket hoisted on his shoulder. He didn’t stop to see who from their unit had fallen.

And on it went: firing, reloading, trying not to duck at the thundering booms from the cannons on the hill, trying not to flee in terror when a rider broke off the line to run them down.

Eventually, Tormund’s plan worked exactly as Russian prince had hoped.Their smaller, more flexible unit was able harass the sides of the column, which was packed in too tightly to be able to maneuver and wheel around to hit them back.By nightfall, the combination of harrying the French cavalry and their own riders’ offensives had driven the French out of the village and pushed them back toward Leipzig.The sounds of guns from other quarters of the battle slowly wound down as night prevented further troop movement.

They bunked down in one of the houses that had been abandoned days ago, its inhabitants fled who knew where, and Jon lit a fire in the hearth to ward off the autumn chill.

Stannis was still at headquarters with the Tsar and the Prussian king, but Ygritte had returned an hour or so before, her lithe body gracefully dismounting from the beautiful stallion she used when she needed to move quickly.Jon didn’t approach her, but he could see her glancing at him from the other side of the fire from time to time, and it was enough to imagine she was in his arms, tending to his hurts and scrapes, her shadowy lips dropping phantom kisses onto his face, even as the woman herself studied him from much too far away, her expression a complete cipher.

***

“You need to go after her, Robb.”

They had been through this conversation so much in the last two days, Robb would have hoped that his guilt might not be so sharp now when his mother reminded him he had abandoned his sister. Yet it still stung just as much as it had the first time.

“Lannister will find Sansa. She’s his wife; that’s his responsibility.”

Catelyn Stark scoffed, as she had each of the previous times they’d had this conversation. “He’s the War Secretary, Robb. He’s a ruthless businessman. How much time do you think he’ll devote to retrieving Sansa? You’re her brother.”

Up to this point he had responded with a practical argument: as War Secretary, the Duke of Casterly Rock had resources they didn’t; his note suggested that he knew where Sansa had gone, which was much more than they had.

But something stopped him this time.An image, of the Duke’s hand on Sansa’s back as they were leaving Parliament, the day before she disappeared.The soft expression on the Duke’s face as he looked at his wife.The truth hit Robb with surprising force.“He’ll find Sansa, Mother.He can’t do anything else - he’s in love with her.”

His mother looked at him for a long moment, and he could tell she was going back through her own memories of her daughter and son-in-law’s interactions, looking for proof, coming to her own conclusions. Then, finally, she nodded.

He didn’t want to abandon Sansa to the desperate hope that the Duke would find her, but what else could they do?“Besides,” he added, “we have a different family member to rescue.”

Catelyn Stark raised an eyebrow, waiting for her son to continue.

“I think I know who Sansa believed kidnapped Bran and Rickon - and if someone was threatened enough to steal her away, then that’s a good reason to think she might have been right.”

Robb could see his mother’s eyes brighten, the mere possibility of finding her youngest and bringing him home giving her new purpose.

He took her hand, knowing they both needed the contact.“Can you get a message to your uncle?As soon as we have everything under control here, we should head north.”

***

His arms were so warm, she never wanted to leave them. So strong, so comforting, she could let all her cares fall away. His hand ran down her back slowly, soothing.

“Sansa?” he murmured, kissing the top of her head like he had done a hundred times, his touch so impossibly gentle.

“Tywin,” she sighed back, snuggling deeper into his embrace.

But he was pulling away from her. Moving away. She clutched at him, desperate not to lose his warmth.

“Stay,” she whispered, unable to voice her request any louder.Unable to stop him.

He reached down and smoothed her hair back from her face. Then, pressing his lips to her temple, he told her, “I will find you, Sansa. I will bring you home.” His voice grew louder. “I’ll find you if I have to tear up half of Europe to do it.”

She smiled back at him, sleepy, confused. Why did he need to find her? She was right here. All he needed to do was come back to bed.

But he walked away, his figure dissolving like mist, and she was back on her filthy pallet, hugging herself desperately, listening to Littlefinger’s harsh breathing as he slept in the next room, waves of despair crashing over her.

She could still feel her phantom husband’s kiss, throbbing as if his lips had branded her.She knew what her dream meant: she had to stay strong.Tywin would find her. It was only a matter of time.

***

Tywin awoke clutching at the sheets in the first poor lodgings he had been able to find on the road to Paris.She had been in his dreams again, as she had every night since that horrible night he had found her bed empty.Her hair tangling in his hands as he kissed her; her skin soft to his touch; her body warm and enticing.

And just like every night, like a teasing shadow, she disappeared before he could reach her; before he could take her and make her his again.

He had to find her - and he would.He would bring his wife home - whatever the cost.


	15. Chapter 15

“We’re going to Paris.” That was all the Hound said, when he left his tent one evening after dinner, a letter bearing the lion seal of the Duke of Casterly Rock clutched in one large palm.

Arya was immediately on edge. What did her fancy and ridiculously old brother-in-law want with her now, almost a year after she had run away to join the Army? And in Paris, no less - the heart of enemy territory? Was he really going to finally send her back to London in (probably discreet) disgrace? Or was it possible he might actually give her a chance to prove herself?

She had begun to suspect, the longer she was with the regiment, that their commander must know something about who she really was, and whenever Sandor exited the command tent and the officer’s gaze lingered on her, she felt all the more certain. Allowing a woman to fight in the regiment was, of course, highly irregular, but what officer would contradict orders from the War Secretary himself?

To Arya’s surprise, the Hound declared that Brienne and Podrick, along with Jaime, who was still in the process of learning to ride and fight with only one hand, would be joining them on the trek north. So their little group rode out of camp the next morning, with supplies for two weeks it would take to cross the Pyrenees by the shortest route - which had thankfully been left unguarded, for the most part, when Joseph Bonaparte and his forces had fled in the spring for the safety of France.

It was hard riding through the mountain passes, and the days seemed to pass almost interminably as Arya pondered what fate might await them when they arrived at their destination. Either due to their good fortune or simply the chaos of war, no one questioned or stopped them, and they rode on, each mile bringing them closer to the Duke of Casterly Rock and whatever decision he would make.

They were to meet the stern-faced War Secretary in a quiet village tavern to the northwest of Paris.To avoid drawing more attention than necessary, they would enter separately, and make their way to a part of the room where they were unlikely to be overheard.

When Arya entered, Jaime and the Hound already sat in the corner farthest from the fire, despite the chilly evening, and although they were nearly hidden by the long shadows, there was something about the group that seemed to stand out immediately.Arya cringed: so much for discretion.

This was the first time Arya had seen the Duke since he had married her sister, but she picked him out immediately: he stood out even more than the other two, although he was nowhere near as large as the Hound.He had come alone, and he was dressed inconspicuously, in peasant garb, and yet his commanding air would be recognizable anywhere.

She approached, and sat down in one of the empty chairs at the edge of the little group.

“Arya Stark.” His voice was clipped and stiff when he addressed her, although the whole group spoke quietly to avoid notice. “I trust you’ve been representing your family well in your performance of your military duties.”

She nearly fell over in shock. The Duke of Casterly Rock wasn’t going to chastise her for running away, disguising who she was, and joining the army - a decidedly unladylike endeavor? Was that actually...approval in his voice?

“Do not mistake my question for my approval of your actions.” There it was. “But if you insist on acting in such an unladylike way, I expect that you are proving yourself useful to your regiment.”

The Hound growled softly, and Arya really was reminded of a dog protecting its territory. “Private Stark has proven herself quite capable, and has been a great asset to her regiment.”

Her chest swelled with pride. The Hound didn’t mince words; if he said that, then that was truly what he thought.

The Duke nodded at his wayward servant, apparently unbothered by Sandor’s reaction. “I’m glad to hear it. But unfortunately, I will need Sir Clegane’s assistance on an urgent matter, which means I will be sending you, and my son, back to London.”

Arya had known this was a possibility since they had left the regiment two weeks before, but sick fear now gripped her, all the same.Back to London?Back to the life she had once fled, to avoid the same fate that had befallen Sansa?She looked desperately at the Hound.

“No. The Stark girl stays with me.”

Jaime added, “And I’m still a soldier, Father. I’m not going home, either.”

Arya could tell the Duke was getting frustrated with not being obeyed immediately; but then Brienne - who must have crept in while Arya had been distracted, with subtlety impressive for someone so immense - spoke up. “Your Grace, I’ve seen Lady Arya on the battlefield, and I’ve been training with Lord Jaime since we found him in Salamanca. They would both be assets to whatever mission you’re putting together.”

There was a moment of tension: the four of them defying the orders of one of the most powerful men in the world.

Then, strangely, incongruously, Duke broke into laughter. The sound wasn’t pleasant, and Arya wanted to turn away from the horrifying sight. “Dear God, what a misfit group: not one, but two females pretending to be soldiers; a one-armed lord; and the sorry son-of-a-bitch who’s decided to adopt them all! Tell me, did it occur to none of your clearly mentally lacking superior officers to send you all home at once?”

The Hound’s expression became even more menacing, if that was possible, and Arya found herself pleased he was on her side in this argument. “One of those mentally lacking superior officers you just mentioned was your brother, who agreed to keep your son and your sister-in-law on after he saw them fight. I didn’t need to intervene for Lady Brienne; she proved herself worthy, all on her own.”

The Duke raised an eyebrow. Arya could tell the Hound had surprised him; had he not known they had been serving under his brother’s command? She had only seen the general from afar, but he had seemed competent, his orders sensible. She hadn’t realized he had known who she was.

“I trust Kevan’s judgment, but I’d like to see for myself, all the same. After dinner, we’ll find somewhere we can work without interruption.” The Duke’s gaze found hers, and Arya met the challenge she saw there. If he was going to give her a fair chance, then she would prove herself worthy.

***

Disguising two extremely tall people, a War Secretary, a one-armed man, and an ornery girl so they could slip unnoticed into the heart of enemy territory was a challenge, to say the least. The city gates were still heavily guarded, despite the thinner forces they were drawing from, ever since Napoleon had ordered any able-bodied man to the German front. And the stakes were high: if any of them were caught, it would provide France with some valuable prisoners, and cause a major setback to Britain’s war effort.

But they had no choice. Sansa was within those walls, and every moment they delayed would give Littlefinger another moment to hurt her.

Tywin usually left subterfuge to others, but he had worked closely enough with Varys over the years to have a sense of what needed to be done. Peasant rags, wigs, bags with hidden pockets to hide weapons inside. The horses, they left with a Secret Service contact in a village a few miles outside the gates; if all went well, they would retrieve them on their way back, to provide them with a means of returning home with all possible speed. One horse - the oldest, sourest-looking one - they would bring with the into the city to aid in the rescue attempt.

Just before dawn on the chosen day, they would enter three different gates in pairs, each of them carrying baskets to blend in with shipments of crops that came in then.

Tywin walked with his son, the latter’s missing arm disguised as best they could manage so they looked like nothing more than a harmless old man and the son who cared for him. As they approached, Tywin examined the guard through heavily lidded eyes. He couldn’t be much more than a boy, no real weapon - but even though he knew that he and Jaime could probably handle this teenager, getting into a scuffle at this point would draw much more attention to their presence than anyone wanted. No, much better to remain inconspicuous.

Luckily, the boy wasn’t especially interested in them - not even in the baskets they carried - and waved them through without ceremony. A brief moment of darkness inside the gates themselves, and then they were inside the city.

And it was awful.Wretched.Desperate and dirty.Starving, hopeless people everywhere, not even bothering to beg anymore.Street after street they passed, that should have been bustling with people selling goods, heading to market, going about their lives - that instead were empty.Emptied of every able-bodied man, with the remainder left behind to starve here.

Tywin had traveled to Paris twice before: once as a boy, when his father still had the money for extravagant trips; and once almost a decade ago, in one of the Prince Regent’s ill-fated attempts to negotiate some sense into the mad emperor. Never had the city seemed as it did now: on the brink of collapse.

Jaime made a face as they approached the bridge that would take them to the Latin Quarter, and the rooms Tywin’s contact in the Secret Service had arranged for them. “If wars are fought for the glory of those at home,” he murmured in the language Tywin was now glad he had spent so many hours drilling into his son’s head, "then Napoleon has already lost.”

Tywin glanced around; they were alone. He hadn’t made much use of his French in years, but it seemed safer to speak it, even for things they didn’t want overheard, so their foreign tones wouldn’t stand out to passersby. “Napoleon has lost sight of everything except his belief that he will prevail. I believe he will fight to the last man.”

***

The rooms were small to be shared among six people, and it had been a long time since Tywin had done without the luxuries of his home and staff. But employing someone was much too risky, so they made do, and soon their days took on a maddeningly monotonous routine.

Each morning, they would go in separate directions during the day, making themselves as inconspicuous as possible (unsurprisingly, the Stark girl was the best at this), looking for signs of Littlefinger or the Boltons. They would visit different neighborhoods each day, to avoid attracting notice; and at the end of the day, they would return to the flat, each of them more puzzled and disheartened than the day before because it was an incontrovertible fact: their targets never appeared. They had never come to Paris, and Tywin’s source was incorrect; or they had been here and left; or they were lying low, avoiding being spotted in public.

As the days dragged on, Tywin’s patience waned, and he frequently found himself snapping at his companions - this strange, ragtag group he had been stuck with due to his Hound’s stubbornness; this group he had, in some strange way, slowly grown to appreciate.

His subordinates at the War Office were competent enough to handle things in his absence, and he was able to have some reports funneled through the Secret Service’s Paris office, but it was painful: receiving hopelessly delayed reports of Wellington’s progress through southern France (initially, the Hound’s information had been more up-to-date than what he got in his reports); receiving even worse information from Stannis on the eastern front; and desperately wishing he could be at his large desk in his sunny office sorting through papers in his usual, efficient manner, rather than fighting for space at a rickety table where the Hound and the Stark girl played cards, or trying to pretend he couldn’t see his son attempting - and usually failing - to impress that giant female he seemed to be enamored with.(Tywin would reserve judgment on that - while he generally disliked females who displayed such unladylike behavior, he had to admit that the woman was an impressive soldier and, quite unexpectedly, came from a decent family.)

Yes, he hated being away from London, living in the enemy’s capital, scurrying from one shadow to the next like mice.

But then he would think of his wife, with Littlefinger’s filthy hands all over her. She had sounded so sincere, that last night they spent together, when she had told him that she loved him. He could still see her expression now, as if she were in front of him, that slight, contemplative smile gracing her soft lips. Was she still resisting Littlefinger’s advances? Was she desperately hoping he was on his way to rescue her?

He didn’t speak much more now with Sansa’s sister than he had during those long-ago teas in the Stark townhouse, back when he was still courting his Duchess. But he could see why the Hound was so devoted to the girl - and he did have to admit he appreciated her talents, such as they were. She was the one of them who had best adapted to their new, underground life.

And it was Arya who finally caught a glimpse of Littlefinger leaving offices near the Tuileries - a clear sign he was involved with someone high up in the chain of command - and trailed him back to an unassuming building on the outskirts of the city.

Littlefinger’s connection gave Tywin pause. The goal was to get Sansa safely out of the city, not create a diplomatic quagmire that would prevent them from escaping France with all their heads still attached. So as desperately as part of him wanted to charge in immediately, he knew they needed to do more reconnaissance before they did.

The Stark girl laughed when he instructed her to stake out Littlefinger’s building. “The Hound was right,” she said, her eyes piercing him uncomfortably. “You’re in love with my sister.”

Tywin scowled. Just because this cheeky girl was his sister-in-law did not give her the right to be so forward. “That is between myself and my Duchess.”

He turned away, but not before he saw the smirk on her face.

But as infuriating as Arya Stark might be, he would endure a great deal more interrogation if it allowed him to bring his wife safely home.

He had to admit that he appreciated the time with Jaime.War had changed his son a great deal, and although it seemed he still had no interest in taking his rightful place as heir, he had grown more serious, more measured.In light of the information the Targaryen girl now had access to (which Tywin had pointedly not mentioned to Jaime) he wondered how the twins might interact when Jaime arrived home - and whether Jaime’s apparent attraction to the Tarth girl might change things. Tywin would certainly not sit by and allow his children’s disgusting behavior to continue, especially now that he had Sansa’s reputation to consider, as well; but perhaps he might be spared the task after all.

They had been in Paris for almost a fortnight when Jaime finally brought up Sansa. Everyone else was out, and the two of them were sitting at the rickety table, Tywin reviewing what little correspondence he had received from the War Office that day - all of it, by now, several weeks out of date - and Jaime attempting to sharpen his sword with one hand.

“Inconvenient, isn’t it?”

Tywin looked up from his papers, puzzled. “What is?”

“You marry a pretty young thing so you can replace your dead heir, and then he turns up again, lacking a rather important limb.”

Jaime’s face wore a smirk that Tywin recognized, even though it had been years since they had spent any significant time together, as one his son used to hide his discomfort with something. The Duke frowned. “My intention was not replacement, Jaime.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Oh? That’s certainly what it looks like.” He paused. “Why not just leave it to Tyrion?”

Tywin never liked losing his temper with his eldest son, but Jaime’s comments seemed designed to rile him up. “I don’t believe I need to enumerate the reasons your brother would not be an acceptable option.”

Jaime sighed and ran his hand - the remaining one - through his hair. “Why do you hate him so? You know he only does these things because he feels you’ve always cut him off from the family.”

Tywin shook his head. “I don’t hate Tyrion. In fact, thanks in part to Sansa’s intervention, I’m now a part owner of his club.”

Jaime stared at Tywin for a moment, then broke out laughing. “My perfectly upright and respectable father is invested in a gambling hell? I truly have been gone a long time.” Then he sobered up. “So what do you plan to do?”

“You’re my heir. Losing your hand doesn’t change that.”

Jaime looked at his father curiously. “And your wife won’t be disappointed to find out that she won’t be the mother of your heir, after all?”

Oddly enough, Tywin Lannister, the man who considered all alternatives and possibilities, had been so wrapped up in her father’s trial, in ensuring that his wife came home safely, he hadn’t considered this. Would Sansa be unhappy when Jaime returned to London as the heir to the dukedom? She certainly hadn’t suggested anything of the sort when they had found out about Jaime, but it would probably lower her status somewhat in the eyes of the _ton_ , that the second wife of the Duke of Casterly Rock would bear him not his prized heir, but merely his spare.

Then Jaime spoke again. “I haven’t decided I’m coming back.”

Tywin looked at his son sharply.

“I never had a choice before, when Tyrion was your only other option, and it seemed clear you would never allow the title to fall to him.” Jaime grimaced, and, seeing the accusation in his eldest’s eyes, Tywin felt an unfamiliar jolt of regret at his treatment of his younger son. “But now it seems I may have an alternative, after all.”

What was Jaime saying? “If this is about your hand-”

Jaime shook his head. “It’s about what I want. And I’m not convinced that a dukedom is what I want.”

“It wasn’t what I wanted, either,” Tywin practically growled, “but it was my duty.”

Jaime didn’t respond for several minutes where neither of them looked at the other, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally Jaime stood, remarking, “Unfortunately, all of this is hypothetical unless we get your wife back. Shall we?”

***

If you were to see the old woman on the street, slightly hunched over, leaning on her cane, you likely wouldn’t give her a second glance, Lord Jorah thought, watching the Dowager Duchess of Highgarden lower herself into the seat facing Daenerys’. You wouldn’t realize that she was one of the most powerful people in Britain, the political mind and will behind one of the wealthiest dukedoms in the country.

“Well, girl?” The Dowager Duchess fixed her gaze on Daenerys, and neither looked away. “Why have you asked me here?”

There was a moment of silence, before Daenerys spoke. “I understand you’ve had some dealings with Lord Petyr Baelish of Harrenhal.”

The Dowager Duchess made a face. “Horrible man. Why does he interest you?”

Daenerys clasped her hands in front of her.“He promised to sponsor my claim in the House of Lords.My claim to the dukedom of King’s Landing.”She paused, waiting for the old woman to acknowledge it herself; the Dowager Duchess remained motionless, unblinking.

Finally, Daenerys continued, “That was before he disappeared, several weeks ago, and no one has heard from him since.But…”And there she paused again, as if considering her next words.“I have reason to believe that you might share my interest in dismantling the Baratheons’ trade empire and removing their stolen title.”

If he didn’t already know her reputation, Jorah have guessed then that the Dowager Duchess was a shrewd woman. She looked her companion over completely, several times, then remarked, steadily, calmly, “We would be taking on a great risk to ourselves, were we to act against them. What would you have to offer us, should we choose to side with you?”

Daenerys slid a piece of paper toward the Dowager Duchess. “My agents have been working tirelessly over the last year to remove the Baratheons’ holdings from their control. I now control all of the shipping out of Plymouth, and much of what comes out of the southwest. If your family were to decide to support my bid in the House of Lords, I would be willing to grant you half of that shipping when I receive the title.”

The Dowager Duchess shook her head. “It’s not enough. We have enough commerce in Highgarden to support the dukedom. We would need some additional…assurances in order to agree to promote your cause, especially given the enemies we would be making, should we do so.”

Daenerys looked sharply at the Dowager Duchess. “While I understand your impulse to keep your own affairs quiet, there’s no point in pretending we don’t know what happened last week. The enemies you’re afraid of are already after you; you might as well benefit financially from the situation.”

The Dowager Duchess was silent for a moment, her expression seeming to shift from anger to respect and back several times.

This was, of course, the reason they had reached out to the Dowager Duchess for this meeting in the first place. The news that Lord Loras Tyrell and Lord Renly Baratheon had been arrested a few days before and were being held on suspicion of sodomy.

It seemed clear who was behind the arrests. The Duchess of Storm’s End and King’s Landing had always disliked her brother-in-law, and if she suspected the Tyrells might soon betray her, then why not move against them first? And while the Duke might have protected his brother, at this point he was too inebriated most of the time to be able to effectively stand up to his wife.

And this - this breach of the agreement everyone assumed Lady Olenna had made with Cersei - meant that what they had previously assumed about the Tyrells’ stance might be negotiable, after all.

“Do you know what the penalty is, for buggery?” The old woman’s voice was hard, her gaze unwavering. “Do you know what my grandson faces, should he be found guilty?”

“The gallows. We’re all well aware,” Daenerys responded, her voice just as hard, “But we both also know that Cersei will do whatever she thinks will benefit her, whether or not it harms your grandson. If you chose, however, to support my claim, then we will do everything in our power to release Lord Loras from these charges.”

The room was silent for what felt like full minutes. Jorah felt his gaze flick back and forth between the two powerful women, wondering which of them would fold first. Finally, the Dowager Duchess spoke, her voice breaking through the silence quite unexpectedly.

“Eighty percent.”

Daenerys tipped her head, trying to determine the old woman’s meaning.

“You offered us half of the shipping you took over from the Baratheons. We’ll help you, if we get eighty percent.”

Daenerys offered her hand, and the two women shook, as if they were businessmen closing a deal. “Agreed.”

***

Sansa was so weak and dizzy that the footsteps on the stairs barely registered. It was only when she heard his voice, ordering whomever was with him to check the rooms, that she dared to allow herself to hope.

When he entered the room, to find her lying on the threadbare mattress, her dirty hair lying limply around her face, a torn gown all that protected her modesty - all facts that she suddenly became aware of, the moment she felt his eyes on her - he said nothing to her. He didn’t bend down to kiss her, as she had often imagined he might.

No, even at this moment, seeing his wife for the first time in two months, he would uphold standards of propriety. That was simply who her husband was. But he did what a husband might be permitted, for a wife in distress: as soon as he had her hands free, he scooped her up in his arms and held her against his chest, as she looped an arm around his neck.

“Secure the premises,” she could feel him order, the words reverberating through her as he spoke. “Gather any documents you can find, and get out of here quickly. I’m getting my wife out of the city.”

And then they were moving; her body bounced in his arms as he descended the stairs, even though he appeared to be trying to hold her steady.

His horse must have been secured right outside the door, because as soon as they reached the street level, he murmured, “You’re going to need to ride, if we’re to get out of the city and toward the Channel as quickly as possible. Can you remain upright, riding in front of me?”

She nodded, and he was putting his arms around her middle to hoist her up into the saddle, when he froze.

“Sansa?” She had never heard his voice so uncertain, so filled with emotion.

She smiled at him, and gently kissed his lips. “It’s our second chance.”

He abandoned all propriety then; he kissed her back, one hand sinking into her hair, while the other stroked her growing belly. “We’ve been blessed,” he murmured, his voice full of wonder.

Then, something shuttered in his face. She recognized it: their situation was still precarious, and he would not lose himself to emotion. He would do what was needed, to get them home. He hoisted her into the saddle, mounted up behind her, and they were off.

***

It was Lord Karstark who had suggested starting with the outbuildings on the Bolton estate. That it might be wise to avoid alerting the Marquess to their actions, if possible - give him less time to retaliate, to move Rickon to another hiding spot.

The stables - where Lord Bolton bred his racing stallions - had struck Robb as the ideal place to begin: far removed enough from the manor to avoid too much notice, if they paid off the stableboys to keep quiet; warm and well kept enough to stash a valuable hostage.

Somehow he had managed to convince Mother to stay home, that she would only get in the way of the men, but he knew even now she would sitting by the door at Winterfell, ready at the first sound of their return. Talisa, too, would be with her, her belly swelling now with Robb’s heir, but still nimble enough to tend to a little boy, should he need it.

The stables were nearly empty, as they had expected they would be. When the first men-at-arms burst in, some of the horses began to whicker quietly, and some of the men went in search of any stableboys who might be sleeping here. His heartbeat speeding up, Robb moved to the ladder that led up to the hayloft. Something told him he knew what he would find there.

And he did. A tiny shape - too thin, too drawn, but still breathing lightly - nestled in the straw.

“Rickon?”

The voice that answered him was weak. “Robb?”

Robb swept his little brother up in his arms and brought him carefully down the ladder. First, he would get Rickon home. Then he would destroy Roose Bolton.

***

Tywin was surprised by his hunger for Sansa, when he finally carried her into her bedchamber - theirs now, really - her arms still around his neck as if she were afraid, if she were to let go, that he would disappear.

Now that she was with child, there was no reason he should take her, except this urgent, primal need screaming at him that he needed to remind her that she was his; he needed to lay claim to her again, now that she was back in his home, in his bed, in his arms.

There was not much to unwrap of the simple peasant dress he had managed to dress her in soon after they got outside the city, after she had plunged, uncaring of the late autumn chill, into an icy stream, and closed her eyes as if the water could wash off not just the grime of her captivity, but the very memory of it. Usually the sight of her bare flesh would arouse him, but he knew instinctively that this was not a carnal moment; so he watched from the bank as she dipped back into the water, ran her hands through her hair, and finally stepped out into his waiting arms.

During most of their journey through enemy territory, to find a ship that would take them to Dover, and safety, Tywin felt exposed, vulnerable, as if any moment Napoleon’s legions would descend on them. Rationally speaking, he knew that they probably looked just like any other couple seeking refuge from the chaos of the city, fleeing the inevitable press of the Allied troops that would be sweeping through here as soon as they broke through Napoleon’s defenses. But all it would take would be one overly suspicious innkeeper; one agent who had been sent to look for a fleeing redhead and her silver-haired husband; and the fragile chance they now had would fall apart.

But it hadn’t happened. They hadn’t been caught. They were back on British soil, and now his lust threatened to overwhelm him.

When she was bare, she looked up at him - not apprehensive, just curious; waiting for him to reveal his intentions. And it was that - that pensive smile she gave him - that sent him over the edge, that had him clawing at his clothes in an effort to get close to her, to reassure himself that she was really back, she was really his again.

“Sansa,” he growled, before he covered her mouth with his, searched out with his hands all those beautifully sensitive spots where he knew she would be aching for him. Finally, when her hips rose to meet his and his fingers found her wet, he thrust inside her.

And it was bliss, a thousand times sweeter than the frayed memories that had kept him going through the days without her. Her body writhing underneath him, her moans and whimpers and her hands on him, scrabbling at his chest and his shoulders as if she couldn’t decide which part of him to touch first.

“Sansa,” he muttered again, “my beloved, darling Sansa,” as his fingers sent her careening headlong into pleasure and threw him over with her.

It took several minutes for him to catch his breath, as she curled up in his arms as if he’d never lost her. Of their own accord, his hands tangled in her hair, letting it fan out over his chest.

Then, absently, his hand wandered down to rest on her stomach, and his breath quickened again.

She smiled up at him. But then, although he hadn’t intended it, she must have seen something in his expression, because her smile faded.

He had thought about this, over the three days they had traveled between Paris and London. Joanna, who had been of quite a similar build to Sansa’s, had started showing at three or four months. Sansa had been in Paris for two. Whatever had happened to her while she was in Littlefinger’s grasp, logically, numerically, the child must be a Lannister.

And yet it was difficult to dismiss that persistent, aching thread of doubt. Sansa was slim; perhaps she was showing early. Or perhaps her abduction had not been the start of an attempt at seduction, but its culmination - after all, she had been seen with Littlefinger several times in the months prior.

He could not ask her, of course. He could not doubt her honor.

She seemed to sense the cause of his worry, and placed her hand over his, rubbing it down her abdomen as if feeling her child might reassure him that it was his seed that had caused her belly to swell.

“He’s yours, Tywin. Littlefinger never touched me.”

He kissed her on the forehead, and so desperately did he want to believe her. But the fact remained: his wife had been stolen from him, and she had returned to him in an altered state, and something primal within him could not fully accept that the child she grew was truly his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is going to be more angst than I anticipated in the last few chapters - but I promise I will make it up to you all with a very fluffy epilogue! Feel free to request anything you'd like to see in it ;)


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